


He Ain't Heavy

by babyrubysoho



Category: The Panic in Needle Park
Genre: Domestic Violence, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Family Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Italian Mafia, Jealousy, M/M, New York City, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 23:31:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 61,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8553994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyrubysoho/pseuds/babyrubysoho
Summary: Hank knew he wasn't any angel: burglar, bad son and general cold-blooded bastard. But that didn't mean he had no feelings; they were just very very focused. In the hellhole that was New York in the '70s, there was only one thing he cared about: his younger brother. Still, it wasn't until Bobby left home in favor of the streets that Hank started to realize what that really meant, and how far he would go to keep him alive and well and entertaining. It was too far, he knew. But he didn't care.Based on the obscure, compelling and incredibly dismal 1971 drug movie "The Panic in Needle Park" (with baby adorable Al Pacino, aww). The fic is in three acts: the first is a prequel to the events of the film, the second follows the in-film plot, and the third breaks away from film canon (after Bobby gets out of prison for the first time) and goes in a different direction.





	1. PART 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, this is obscure. I never imagined myself writing about this film or this pairing, and certainly never thought it would turn into a 15-chapter monster! Still, rule 34, man. But it's a really good film. Plus baby Al Pacino was too cute. Aaaand the guy who plays his big brother is the same (good-looking but weirdly creepy) actor who plays his bodyguard in The Godfather, which I have also written an obscure fic about! (I swear there were only like 5 actors working in Hollywood in the '70s.)
> 
> To be honest, I don't expect anyone to ever read this except me. But it was immensely satisfying to write :)

Hank pressed both hands against the door and leaned on them. The paint was cold and smooth beneath his palms and the wood felt as if it was vibrating, though Hank understood it wasn’t: it was just his hyper-awareness of everything around him, the rapid pulse of blood in his wrists. As a feeling it belonged to the same family as a drug high or the excitement of a robbery; but this was different. This was…anticipation, and gratification, and _relief_. He looked down solemnly.

Hemmed in between his solid hands and back against the door, Bobby looked up. And kissed him.

 

* * *

 

 

Hank left home when he was nineteen, a week after their father walked out. He stayed just long enough to be sure the shitheel wasn’t coming back; he had only left it so late for the sake of their mother. And Bobby. Bobby was eleven, and didn’t really understand why either of them was going. Hank guessed it hurt, but what could you do?

Things got better, after he went. More room for the two remaining in their tiny dump of an apartment, more cash for food now their father wasn’t there to sit on his lazy fucking ass and inhale it. More space for Hank to pursue a career, get laid and try to enjoy life in the Bowery. Insofar as that was possible, which turned out to be much further than Hank had thought now that he didn’t have a crying mother and kid brother or a slap-happy deadbeat dad plaguing him every hour.

Hank realized, almost to his surprise, that he was wired to be happy. Sure, and maybe that was at other people’s expense – burglary wasn’t technically a victimless crime – but this was NYC and full of morons who practically begged you to take advantage. Hank had never been too bothered with moral qualms, and in his six years away from home he’d exchanged the few he’d been born with for a decent flat, a fulfilling career path and a healthy working relationship with various organized crime elements. Life was almost good.

Being a cold-blooded bastard probably helped.

 

* * *

 

 

“That’s what you are,” said Bobby, from his cross-legged position on the mattress. His tone was mild, but carried an edge that Hank never missed when he heard it. “How long since you deigned to come down here, huh?” Bobby always sounded like he was kidding around. Hank’s pale eyes took in the crooked line of his smile. So. His brother was upset.

“Big word there for a little boy,” Hank remarked. He knew quite well that he tended to come off as abrasive, in a snide and roundabout way, but Bobby just grinned and flapped a worn English textbook at him. Yeah, the kid was pissed. He was hiding it well, but Hank knew his brother, even after all this time; and the more exaggeratedly upbeat Bobby acted, the more likely something was bugging him.

“How’s about you clean up this shit-tip, Einstein?” continued Hank. He paused to shrug off his leather jacket and toss it in the direction of the only chair in Bobby’s tiny room. That had once been Bobby’s and _his_ room. The coat slithered down a precarious stack of old newspapers and landed on the floor. Hank gave his brother a pointed look, curling his mouth up in a smile that women were either charmed by or found indeterminately creepy.

“Shut up,” said Bobby. “I don’t got time. It’s exams next week.”

“Your passport to a better future.”  Hank slouched down on the other end of the mattress, trying to figure out how he had ever fit into this room, even sharing with someone as small as Bobby.

“Why not?”

“Dumbass.” Hank wrinkled his nose. “This place fuckin’ reeks of B.O. and optimism.” Hank was quite proud of his brother, actually – that mixture of intelligence and a persistent belief in the future so naïve it bordered on idiocy – but wasn’t about to tell Bobby that. “You wanna infect Mom with whatever biohazard you got growing in here?”

Bobby actually looked at him then, chin resting in his hand and short fingers covering his mouth. His eyes lost their combative glimmer; those enormous fucking eyes, Hank had no idea where they came from: he himself had inherited their mother’s light eyes and hair and their father’s stocky build, while Bobby got her small frame and white skin. But the eyes were anybody’s guess.

“Mom’s not been…great lately,” said Bobby carefully. Hank knew it, had known it as soon as she had opened the door. Every time he came by for a visit it seemed like she was getting fainter, or duller, like a photo left out in the sun. If he’d been disposed to feel guilt, Hank supposed he would be feeling it now; he felt sorry for her, and maybe it’d help if he came around more often. But maybe not: she’d had a resurgence of Catholicism after their dad had left (well, if there was anything to thank God for it was that), which tended to manifest in tight-lipped disapproval of Hank’s work activities – not that it stopped her taking his money when he offered it.

Besides, Hank resented her, in the abstract way he felt about everything, and he thought it probably showed: her weakness, not only in failing to stand up to their father but in marrying the fucker in the first place, for having a second kid and making the first responsible for protecting them both. And now this…gradual fading, when at least one son still needed her.

Still, duty was duty.

“Yeah, I saw it,” Hank said, and heard Bobby sigh. “So why didn’t you call me, ya dumb shit?”

“Fuck you,” answered Bobby in a low voice, big eyes flicking toward the paper-thin bedroom door. “Our phone’s been out for a month. Which you’d know if you bothered to fucking call once in forever.”

“Ever heard of a payphone?”

“Right back at ya.” Bobby’s pale face set, the way it had when he was a little kid about to explode. “What the hell would you do anyway? All you do when you come round is smoke and moan about how dirty it is and give me that fucking smirk. Yeah, that one.” Hank raised his eyebrows and lolled back against the plaster wall. “You couldn’t be a _normal_ brother,” Bobby continued.

“What’s that?” asked Hank, amused.

“Like…I dunno. Like you see on TV.”

“What TV?”

“My point,” said Bobby hotly. “Like a guy who gets a day job and buys his mom a damn television, and takes his kid brother to the park to…I dunno, feed the fucking ducks.”

“Trust me,” Hank told him, “you would not have wanted me to take you to the parks I know, unless you fancied feeding the bums and the dealers your wallet.” He grinned thinly. “I ain’t that kind of brother, Bobby. I’m this kind.” He dug in the pockets of his slacks and produced a wad of folded bills. “Catch.”

“What’s this?”

“This is what I come round for,” said Hank, stretching. “To check you’re still breathing, and give this to Mom.”

“Thanks,” Bobby shot back, with a sneer that didn’t suit him. The kid looked hurt, more than Hank was expecting – yeah, Bobby was a drip, but he shouldn’t be that surprised at Hank’s display of detachment. “So why give it to me now?” demanded Bobby, fidgeting with the cash.

“You know why.” And Bobby did: Hank could see it in his face, so easy to read even after years of living apart. Hank had smelled the gin on their mother’s breath the moment he got in the house, and that had never happened before. Oh, he knew she had the odd drink; she was human even if she had got religion, and this neighborhood was a hellhole. But he’d never been able to hear the liquor in her quiet voice, smell it in the walls of the apartment. That was new, and it was a problem. You couldn’t trust an addict with money.

“You jerk,” said Bobby softly, again with that set expression that said he was about to go nuclear. “You do know. You know she’s got this problem, and who the fuck _wouldn’t_ , living here? And all you can do is throw money at me!” Hank was watching him carefully, wondering whether to invent a lie just to calm him down. In the end he couldn’t be bothered.

“I’m giving you the money because only you can deal with Mom. I can’t help her.”

“The lamest fuckin’ excuse…” muttered Bobby. And then aloud, “Why not?!”  
Hank shrugged.

“Because I don’t care enough about her.” That did the trick: Bobby’s dark eyes flared up wide, and in the space of a moment he had chucked his textbook in Hank’s direction and was following on its heels, swinging for his brother’s face.

It ended just like when he was a kid: it was as easy for Hank as it had been for their father to swat Bobby’s hand aside and grab him by the ear, twisting it.

“Ow! Get _off_ me, you fuck!” Bobby took another spirited swing, the direction wildly off thanks to the distracting pain in his ear. Hank laughed shortly and transferred his grip to the younger man’s throat, shoving him away and down so his back hit the mattress; really, Bobby was a weedy thing; Hank had weighed half as much again at his age.

“I don’t care about Mom,” Hank repeated, his breath starting to come faster despite the ease of holding Bobby down. The kid snarled at him. “I care about you.”

“…About _me_!” said Bobby indistinctly but in clear disbelief. Hank let up on his neck and grabbed his jaw instead, batting away his fists without thinking about it. “You care about me so you fuck off for months on end and leave me with this…with _her_ …with this piss-poor excuse for a life?!”

“Yeah,” countered Hank, giving him a quick shake. Bobby was interesting like this. He was such a sweet kid it was hard to rile him up, but once you did you could see the big bitter mess inside him. _That_ was when Hank felt close to him, felt like they were really blood. “So _you_ clean this place up, buy Mom whatever it is she needs to function, food, fuckin’ bathtub gin; and use the rest of the money to make something of your life. _Your_ life. Not hers. Not mine.”

“All by my damn self,” Bobby spat.

“Hey, you want more from me, you come to me.” Hank could feel the pulse racing in Bobby’s neck; the kid was due for another explosion. “Don’t expect me to hang around here. ‘Cause it stinks.”

Bobby stared up at him for several seconds, then without warning snapped at him, twisting his head in Hank’s grip and sinking his teeth into the ball of his thumb. Hank hissed; it stung sharply, not like a real bad hurt; but all of a sudden he was feeling angrier and more entertained and more…well, just _more_ …than he remembered feeling for a long time. The room lurched in his vision, not unpleasantly.

Bobby had released his thumb once he’d left a dent in it, and was grimacing at him and wriggling defiantly in his grip. Hank smiled at him – somehow it felt his mouth was moving differently than usual – and tightened his hold, prying open Bobby’s jaw again and pushing his thumb in, past his teeth.

“You wanna draw blood, ya little prick, you clean it up.”

Another second of struggle and Bobby went still beneath him. Hank wondered if he was going to bite again, and what would happen if he did. For once he had no idea what his own reaction would be. That was odd, and kind of fascinating, though not as interesting as the look in Bobby’s eyes or the sensation – oh, the sudden sensation as the tip of his tongue brushed Hank’s thumb. Bobby still looked like he wanted to bite the digit right off, but at the back of that was something…confusion, that’s what it was. Like he didn’t know any better than Hank what he was doing.

For Hank, the touch sparked an abrupt tingle of excitement, though he couldn’t tell if it made him feel aggressive or amused or euphoric or _what_ it was. But it was pleasant. Having Bobby near him like this was pleasant. Both familiar and curiously new.

Hank didn’t like to think things through quickly. He preferred to take his time and do it in comfort, which was part of what made him a success at his job: long periods of prior thought and planning. So he didn’t try to figure out what was happening, but instead took in all the available information to reflect on later.

“Hey. Moron.” His voice came out softer than usual: one piece of data. He removed his fingers carefully from the vicinity of Bobby’s mouth and touched his face lightly. Bobby was shivering like he was coming down with something: piece number two. And he looked fucking terrified: yet more data. That would do, thought Hank. He gave Bobby his usual one-sided smile.

“What are you, nuts?” he said, sitting up and shaking his injured hand. “Ya think you’re a damn Rottweiler? Dumb kid.” Bobby was staring at him silently, eyes huge. Hank got to his feet and retrieved his jacket from the floor. He pointed at the money lying on Bobby’s chest, creased now from where it had been crushed between them. “Keep it, use it. Don’t let her see it. And fuckin’ call me if anything happens.”

Without waiting for a reaction he turned and left the narrow room, shutting the pointless door behind him. He said goodbye to their mother, who was sitting at the kitchen table holding a can opener and staring at nothing. Then he went to work.

 

* * *

 

 

Hank walked back into the kitchen a mere three weeks later, which was unprecedented. As was the pungent scent of dope filling the hallway. Not that it was out of place in their rundown building, but he was damn sure it had never come from his mother’s apartment before.

“Hey,” said Bobby, who was leaning against the full kitchen sink and smoking in the direction of the window, as if that would help. He didn’t look surprised to see Hank. He didn’t look anything but stoned.

“Hey yourself. What the hell are you doin’?” Hank had never seen his brother like this: his usual wired energy all subdued, heavy lashes at half-mast over his dopey eyes. In a brief flash Hank remembered Bobby’s face the last time they had met, tense and wide awake and those dark eyes huge and focused. He still didn’t know what it had meant, that moment, but it was what had brought him back here so fast: he wanted to find out.

“Smoking,” said Bobby calmly.

“Why aren’t you at school?”

“It’s nearly out anyway,” Bobby pointed out as if he knew what the time was. “No point sticking around for fuckin’ Physics.” For himself, Hank would tend to agree; the only part of school he’d paid attention to was Math, and that was only so he’d know he wasn’t getting stiffed by the guys he worked with. But Bobby was different: he had _plans_.

“How the exams go?” he asked carefully. Bobby shrugged.

“Tanked ‘em.” Hank narrowed his eyes.

“Because of that shit?” He pointed at the joint still smoldering in his brother’s fingers. Bobby shrugged again. This was…odd. “Where’d you get it?”

“Guy on the first floor.” Hank made a mental note to have words with Sammy; it was bound to be him, given that he’d been Hank’s own youthful pharmacy.

“And you smoke that crap in Mom’s house.” Even Hank hadn’t done that, not least because of their father, but more because it was simply not politic. You did it outside with your buddies or at someone else’s place, not in the family home. “You got no fuckin’ respect?”

“She won’t notice,” said Bobby bitterly. “And besides, that’s rich coming from you!”

“Meaning?”

“Law-abiding citizen that you are.” Hank felt a lopsided smile of amusement tug at his mouth; he had never been ashamed of his career path, and he suspected Bobby didn’t care either. He was just deflecting, and not very effectively. It was almost cute.

“You don’t smoke weed in the house,” Hank stated. “ _You_ don’t smoke at all. You cut this shit out and get back to school.”

Bobby looked blearily defiant. Hank smiled wider and started toward him. That woke him up all right: Bobby’s eyes opened properly and he took a step back. Hank wondered if he reminded the kid of their father; they were built just the same, after all. But no, maybe not: Bobby was making a weird face, half apprehension and half something else that Hank hadn’t been able to pin down however hard he thought about it.

“Give me that.”

“Piss off,” said Bobby, holding the joint out of reach, ash falling all over the damn dishes. Hank grabbed it from him and flicked it into the sink.

“Enough of that. No more using in the house, you got no fuckin’ manners?” He cuffed Bobby lightly upside the head to push the message home. Bobby slapped at his hand so he did it again, harder, feeling a sudden spike in adrenaline. Instead of drawing his hand back he kept it there, palm against Bobby’s face and fingers hard on the back of his neck. Why, he couldn’t say. Just like the last time, Bobby froze. Hank gazed down at him intently. He knew people found his stare off-putting, thanks to his pale eyes, but Bobby was looking back at him raptly. Hank thought he should probably say something.

“You hear me, Bobby?”

Bobby was staring at him, leaning into his hand, his own rising to grip Hank’s wrist without making any move to tug it aside. His fingers had that same quiver in them that Hank had felt three weeks ago, tremors slowed this time by the drugs, and Hank suddenly wondered if it wasn’t _this_ that had been fucking with Bobby’s schooling, not the dope. The memory of this…whatever it was. Hank hadn’t been able to figure it out, but it was certainly making him curious. He remembered the sharp bite of Bobby’s teeth, the electrifying brush of his tongue.

“I said, did you hear me?” repeated Hank, hushing his voice deliberately to see how the younger man would react. Bobby leaned in toward him like he didn’t know he was doing it, tilting his pale face up. That was fine by Hank, it just gave him a better view. He felt his fingers turn careful on the nape of Bobby’s neck; interesting. As he watched, the kid finally dropped his gaze as though Hank’s glacier-blue stare had become too intrusive.

“…I heard you,” said Bobby faintly, not letting go of his wrist. Hank could feel the movement of the words in the air brushing his face, Bobby was that close. His heart sped up, and he didn’t know why, just that he liked it. Anticipation: like picking a tricky lock.

Bobby didn’t move again. Hank wanted to find out where this was going; he felt no apprehension, rather a mildly engaged fascination. So he simply _detached_. He’d always been able to do that, ever since he was a kid when sometimes it was better not to feel yourself getting your ass kicked; his body generally knew what was best for him, and it freed his brain up for more useful things. Like thinking about this.

As if from a distance he observed himself set his thumb to Bobby’s chin, saw those great big eyes squeeze closed. Bobby’s skin was damp and nervous beneath his fingers, though that could just be because he wasn’t used to the grass. Hank saw himself nudge at Bobby’s jaw, saw the kid’s expressive lips part to show his teeth, and this still wasn’t weird. It was downright bizarre, how not-weird it was.

Bobby made a small, strained sound; a taut pause, then his mouth touched Hank’s. For a long second Hank’s mind merely registered the sensation clinically. But then his body made an urgent demand to his brain for input, and the next moment he was _feeling_ it, the brush of Bobby’s lips as shocking and immersive as anything he had ever experienced. At that moment he understood it, what kind of touch this was and what their recent encounters might have meant. If he was right, it was thoroughly fucked up; and he didn’t care. Because it _interested_ him, possibly more than anything had in his life before. Hank leaned forward as Bobby retreated and pressed their lips together harder. Just to be sure. Bobby clutched at him, stifling a panicked, helpless noise as he rose up to meet him. Yeah. He was sure.

Now that he knew what was happening, Hank straightened up. This merited some careful thought before he did anything else; he looked forward to the luxury of working out what, if anything, it made him feel. All he knew right now was that Bobby had suddenly become more intriguing to him than in the whole seventeen years he had been part of Hank’s life. Sure, Bobby was family, Bobby was a person, a student, a laughing, joking bag of dissatisfaction; and as such Hank was somewhat emotionally invested in him. Now, though, Bobby was something far more engaging: a mystery.

Hank blinked and looked down to find Bobby staring at him once more, breathless; Hank’s thumb was stroking across his dark hair in a gesture far more like a caress than either of them was used to experiencing. Hank wondered what his body was telling him when it did these things. Seemed maybe Bobby wasn’t the only mystery.

“…What are you gonna do?” came Bobby’s hushed voice at last. He sounded petrified. His face was set again in the blank expression that could mean anger or upset or something else; but he still shook beneath Hank’s careful fingers.

“Do?” said Hank, surprised. He smiled his crooked smile, which didn’t make Bobby look any happier. “I ain’t gonna do anything. Point is, what’re _you_ gonna do?” The pleading look in the kid’s eye only made him feel calmer, more satisfied with the turn this afternoon had taken, and Hank knew that _this_ was what he wanted: more than Bobby’s peace of mind, more than the odd ripple of exhilaration he’d experienced when Bobby kissed him. He wanted to see what would happen next.

“…I don’t know,” said Bobby helplessly, and shuddered as Hank’s thumb grazed his ear before the older man let him go nonchalantly. Hank mused on the likelihood of Bobby finding a solution to _this_ in one of his textbooks. Surely not. For once in his life, Bobby was gonna have to take an unmapped route.

“Well, whatever you do, you can do it with this.” Hank held out another fold of cash. “But don’t show Mom. And remember what I said about lighting up in the house. ‘Cause if I catch you again you’ll get worse than a smack.” Bobby just nodded, eyes not leaving Hank’s face, and made no move to take the money. Hank pressed it into his hand, the contact igniting another provocative string of sensations that he filed away for later. “And get your ass back to school.”

With that Hank turned on his heel and let himself out of the apartment, closing the door on the giddying scent of dope and the arresting sight of his brother’s white face.


	2. Chapter 2

Hank yawned and rolled over in bed, groping for the phone.

“What.”

“Henry.” Hank cracked an eye open grudgingly and observed the gray corona of light spilling past the curtains; felt like mid-afternoon. “Henry, are you awake?”

“Obviously…” Hank grabbed the blanket and tugged it up around his shoulders; the bedroom was always freezing. It bugged him when his mother called him that. She never used to, only since he’d left home. For him it was symptomatic of her increasing distance from reality, or at least from him; besides, it sounded inherently disapproving. “What is it, Mom? It’s early.”

“If you weren’t out all night doing the Lord knows what -”

“Working,” said Hank. He heard a quiet huff of breath down the phone, but he’d long since lost interest in engaging with the woman on the subject of his job. He was more interested in her voice: steadier than he remembered it being, but with a very slight dropping of consonants. So, she’d figured out her liquor intake. He wondered how much was required these days to keep her functional.

“Is your brother over there with you?”

“Nah,” said Hank after a pause, waking up at the mention of Bobby. “When is he ever?”

“Then…” His mother’s voice changed tone, not just tired now but tense. Hank sat up. “Well. When you see him, tell him he needs to come home. I won’t be angry.”

“I ain’t seen Bobby in a week,” Hank told her levelly. “Why?”

“…I haven’t, either,” his mother confessed. Hank heard a clink against the receiver that could only be a bottle. He felt a quick rush of something that might be excitement or worry or merely curiosity.

“And you waited this long to call me. Why?” Hank thought he knew, though: she just hadn’t noticed, what with working and drinking and praying and sitting at home like a fucking manikin. Probably the school had called. “For Christ’s sake, Mom -”

“Language,” his mother snapped in her usual quiet voice. “Because you don’t _help_ , Henry. I can’t rely on you! Bobby looks up to you so much, and what an example you are… He’s a good boy, and -”

“Is he,” said Hank, cracking a smile for the first time that day at the memory of Bobby’s lips on his. Not to mention the dope stash. He spoke up before his mother could really get going on him. “All right, all right. If I see him I’ll tell him.”

“ _If_ you see him! What do you mean? He’s your little brother, go find him! And don’t just _tell_ him. Bring him home!”

Hank replaced the receiver while she was still talking. Well. That was unexpected; Bobby was turning out to be full of surprises. And now Hank found himself fully engaged. Awake. _Alive_.

 

* * *

 

 

Hank’s initial plan was to go about his business and wait for Bobby to turn up; he was probably hiding out with some guy from the high school, or some girl, and he’d get sick of that sooner or later. Hank wanted to see what his brother would do of his own accord, and he didn’t like to screw with the variables. But after five days he got tired of waiting and of fielding calls from his mother while he was trying to sleep; at least, he thought that’s all it was. Or maybe it was concern, which was interesting enough in itself; Hank didn’t experience real concern often enough to know what it felt like.

When it came down to it, finding Bobby was actually easier said than done. Surprising, really, given that the kid only had enough street smarts to get him to and from school every day. But maybe Hank was mistaken there.

In the end it was Sammy tipped him off: some girl he sold to thought she had seen Bobby down at West 70th and Columbus. Hank found himself laughing silently: looked like Bobby had made it to the park at last. The thought of his brother out there with the wasters and hookers and the low-grade end of the criminal class didn’t exactly delight him – when it came to the unlawful professions Hank was a snob, all right – but the novelty of it did. Sammy had given him an odd look, sold him some weed and scarpered.

 

So Hank made his way to Needle Park. He hadn’t been around for a while – sure, he chipped a little now and again for relaxation, but these days he only scored high-quality shit from guys he knew – and it was as weird and depressing and comfortable as ever. Everyone who spent time there was a professional fuck-up, and it made for a pretty tolerant atmosphere; but that was mostly ‘cause no-one gave a shit about anything beyond their next fix.

Hank waited around for a couple of hours, observing the life of the place with his cool gaze and listening to the ramblings of a safe-cracker who had a major problem with speed. Just looking at him made Hank feel fidgety, which manifested in an increasing impatience to see Bobby. But once it got dark he had to leave and meet a guy from the Lucchese Family to discuss some breaking-and-entering consultancy. A man had to eat, after all.

The next day he was luckier; he found Bobby on his first wander up to Sherman Square. Hank spotted his brother from quite a distance, that pale skin and black hair and a stance that looked like he was bracing himself for a kicking but would bounce right back up if you tried it. Something in Hank relaxed at the sight, while the rest of his senses sharpened.

“Bobby,” he said briskly, once he was in earshot. The kid gave a little jump, and the guy and girl on either side of him looked round. Bobby just stared up at him from the splintered bench.

“Hey, Hank,” said the guy to Bobby’s right; Marco, Hank’s brain supplied. The art kid. Well, it could be worse.

“How you been?” Hank asked Bobby, coming to a stop in front of him and ignoring his companions – Marco was stoned, and the chick looked like she’d do pretty much anything to be in the same condition. Bobby didn’t reply. He just got that look on his face, that stubborn, sweet look, mixed with dismay and what was probably the cold. Hank stuck his hands in his pockets and tried to look non-combative. “Come on. I’ll buy you a sandwich.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Not you,” Hank said to Marco, who could afford his own damn lunch. He fixed Bobby with a look. Bobby sighed, got to his feet, and followed him across the street to the diner.

“So.” Hank slid into a chair across from his brother, nodding at the waitress and ordering without consulting Bobby. “Mom sent me to look for you.” The coffee came and Bobby wrapped his white fingers around his striped paper cup, staring down at its contents.

“Took her long enough.” Bobby set his jaw, but couldn’t stop himself looking guilty.

“You weren’t so easy to find,” Hank explained evenly. He couldn’t quite work out what had prompted this runaway episode, even with Bobby in front of him; was it all about what had happened the other week? Hank didn’t think it was anything to be so scared of. Fucked up, yeah, but what wasn’t? Then again, Hank’s moral center tended to give way in favor of anything that might bring him some entertainment. But Bobby wasn’t like that.

“How hard did you look?” demanded Bobby, sounding both bitter and vaguely hopeful. Hank shrugged.

“I got other things to do, ya know.” He pointed at Bobby’s fries. “Eat.” Bobby took a grudging mouthful, maybe too on edge to be hungry. Which meant he was having a pretty easy time of things, if he could take food or leave it. “Now answer me some stuff.”

“I don’t wanna,” said Bobby quietly, with a small flinch as Hank leaned back. Hank regarded him with amusement.

“Too bad, you gotta. You eat, you pay. One way or another; if someone feeds you round here, ain’t outta the goodness of their hearts, they want something from you. Time you learn the rules before you get yourself in real trouble. Dumbass.”

“You really think I’m dumb, don’t you.”

“Nah, you’ve got a brain,” Hank conceded. “But it’s for books and shit. Not life in Needle Park. So tell me: what you been doing the last two weeks?”

“Learning,” said Bobby after a minute. “There’s some good people round here, they’re helping me out.” Hank raised his eyebrows at that; really, the kid’s naivety was almost breathtaking.

“Where you been sleeping?”

“Marco’s letting me crash on his sofa. You should see his stuff, it’s really good, he’s gonna make a pile one day if he can get noticed.”

“Says the professional art critic.” Hank sniffed, but felt slightly relieved. Bobby’s instincts (or his luck) couldn’t be so fucking terrible; there were far worse guys he could have fallen in with. Marco annoyed the shit out of him, but that was about it. “Okay. What about school? You know they called Mom, right? You’re lucky she ain’t got the cops out to drag your ass back home.”

“I was doing no good at school,” said Bobby, abandoning his sandwich and warming his hands again on the cup. Hank thought he sounded like he had some regrets about that, or about making their mother upset. He couldn’t tell which.

“Since when?”

“Since you know when,” Bobby replied tightly. Hank could feel himself smile. “…Since Mom started drinking so much,” the kid continued, edging away from the real issue.

“So…that’s why you left? That what you’re telling me, Bobby? You can’t live with her?”

“That for a start,” said Bobby under his breath.

“Why here?” asked Hank relentlessly. “Such a half-assed way to run away from home. Why not head for sunny climes? You really think you could hide in the Park? It’s practically round the fuckin’ corner.” Bobby shifted uncomfortably, but Hank felt no urge to go easy on him. “Was it so I could find you?” he asked curiously, and saw Bobby’s jaw tighten. His brother shook his head. “Is that what this was? You wanted my attention, Bobby?”

“What’s your problem?!” demanded Bobby suddenly, glaring at Hank. “What’s with the third degree? I couldn’t take living at home, so I left. And like you have a right to judge! You walked out when you were barely older than me.”

“ _I_ had a career plan,” Hank reminded him. Bobby was deflecting again; okay. “What _you_ gonna do for money, huh? Young kid like you, no contacts, no skills, you’re gonna end up a mule, or hookin’, or worse. That what you want?”

“I won’t,” snapped Bobby, looking appalled. “I’ll take care of myself!”

“…What is it?” asked Hank, intrigued. “Why’re you being so stubborn? Why you so set on hangin’ round here with these losers? When you could do so much more if ya just stuck with school; went to City College like you always said.”

“I _can’t_. Not right now.” Bobby pushed his plate aside and sank his head in one hand, the self-righteous anger gone as fast as it had come. “I can’t do anything. I can’t think about anything. Except…” He trailed off, his pale face a mixture of guilt and bewilderment.

“That so?” Hank made a note of the fact, and of the sense of gratification he was feeling. “And exactly how do these fuckers help?”

“Everyone here’s pretty screwed up,” explained Bobby artlessly. “It feels nice. Like no-one’s gonna judge me for being no good.”

“I ain’t judging you either,” Hank told him, and if anything was true it was that. He leaned forward, resting his weight on his elbows. “If ya want something from me, Bobby, you can say so. I won’t mind. You can have it.”

For a second Bobby looked sick; Hank knew what the kid was thinking, and what he wanted. It was a pretty stimulating sensation, the tension, because now Hank was in front of him and this close he genuinely had no idea what Bobby would do. He reached out deliberately and touched Bobby’s fingers, felt the shiver, though he couldn’t really tell if it belonged to Bobby’s hand or his own.

“Ya wanna come back with me?” he asked softly. Bobby’s fingers were cold beneath his own. Hank looked him right in the face.

“ _Don’t_ ,” muttered Bobby fervently, dopey girls’ lashes falling to cover his eyes. “Please…”

“All right,” said Hank, and didn’t. He let go, instead. It made no odds to him either way; he was detached enough to step back and wait. Bobby would figure out what he wanted eventually, and no matter what the outcome it promised to be an interesting process.

“What’re you gonna do?” asked Bobby, in that slight voice. Hank’s answer was the same as before.

“Nothin’. What are _you_ gonna do, Bobby?”

“I…” Bobby looked up quickly. “Seriously? You’re not gonna make me go home?”

Hank grinned, still watching him closely. Why would he? When in the last month Bobby had become the most fascinating person he had ever run across. He wanted to see where it would go, how far this tangle of idiocy and defiance and charm would get before Hank inevitably grew bored. Which ought to have happened by now, and yet here they were.

“Nah.” Hank drained his coffee and threw a few bills at Bobby. “It’s your life, you do what you want.” Bobby’s face was a picture of suspicion, suppressed dismay and the avid expression that was a familiar look on any inhabitant of the Park when they caught sight of money. That was bound to happen if he stayed here, Hank supposed. The only thing that made these people look hungrier than money was drugs. He banged his knuckles smartly on the plastic table. “But I ain’t your personal bank, so don’t get used to it. You find you can’t afford to live, don’t do anythin’ stupid. Use your brain, or give up and go home.”

“…Thanks.”

“I’ll be seeing ya,” said Hank, getting up. He caught Bobby’s fingers twitch as if they wanted to reach out. Hank refrained from comment, and left before he got the urge to needle Bobby any further. His brother had made his choice.

 

* * *

 

 

“He’s not coming home, Mom,” Hank told her from the doorway. It took a while for his mother to process this statement; then her lips tightened in the same way that Bobby’s always did. She had the tremors in her hands, too, like his brother’s, but for a much more banal reason.

“He’s not…what did you tell him, Henry?” she demanded, sitting down heavily on the kitchen chair with the wobbly leg. Hank wasn’t even surprised that he was to blame for this.

“Told him it’s his life. Told him to go make somethin’ of it, that he ain’t obligated to live with a drinker. Ya want him spending every day on tiptoe around _you_?” Hank knew precisely how much his words would sting, but he didn’t care; any childhood affection he might have still carried for their mother had been slowly eroded, and erased once and for all by her neglect of Bobby. All that was left now was duty. He didn’t exactly blame her for being what she’d become; he just couldn’t bring himself to feel anything about it. “We got enough of that when Pop was around.”

“But…where _is_ he?” The woman had turned even paler than usual at the mention of their father. Hank felt a tiny swell of malicious pleasure, but it was insignificant compared to the many sensations prompted by Bobby lately; obvious, then, whose side he would take. “What about his education, his future?”

“That’s his choice,” said Hank calmly. “He ain’t a child anymore. You wanna go look for him and nag at him, be my guest, but I ain’t gonna do it for you. I’ll keep an eye on him, that’s all. If he asks for help, I’ll help.”

“As if your brand of help will do anything for him!” Hank’s mother was sitting very straight now, looking right at him, though Hank could practically sense how much she wanted to turn to the kitchen cabinet. Must be some liquid assistance in there. “You should have taken yourself out of his life the same time you got out of this house. Father Rizzo says -”

“Well we’re both out now,” Hank interrupted, because the last thing he needed was a religious lecture. “So you get your life back too. Ain’t you pleased? Me and Bobby, we’re gonna do fine. So live how you want. Have a drink. Hell, have ten.”

“You’re no good, Henry,” she said in her quiet voice. Dull, she sounded. Everything about this place was so fucking dull, and it all came from her. Again, wasn’t her fault, but there it was. “God forgive me, but it’s the truth. You stay away from Bobby. I’ll find him myself. I’ll bring him home.”

“Sure you will.” Hank cracked his most irritating grin. “In the meantime, here’s some no-good fuckin’ cash -”

“Language!”

“-If you can bear to take it,” continued Hank. His mother left the money lying there on the table, and sank her head in her hands; but she didn’t say no.

 

* * *

 

 

Over the next few months Hank spent more time around the Central Park area than he was used to. Frankly, it sucked, as did most of its inhabitants – he could _feel_ himself getting stupider the longer he talked to Bobby’s so-called friends – but there were compensations. Partly there was the complete lack of mental and physical effort required when he hung around there; it was almost restful. Partly there were the cheap and easy women. Mostly there was Bobby, when Hank could find him.

Within the limited area surrounding the Park, Bobby was kind of a transient; it was hard to pin him down to one location for more than a week. He rented rooms, crashed with friends, if that’s what they were, stayed in hostels or just dozed off in cafes. Hank thought this might be deliberate, that Bobby didn’t want to be cornered in private, at least by him. As a matter of fact Hank had no intention of doing so, for any reason; watching was enough. But he could see that Bobby didn’t trust him, or possibly didn’t trust himself. So Hank kept their meetings strictly public.

Surprisingly enough – and Hank did enjoy a surprise – his studious little brother seemed to be thriving here. Sure, he was a bit skinnier than before, but it wasn’t like their mother had been any kind of three-star chef either; and besides, he had that chipper look back: that nervy wit and energy Hank remembered from his childhood. Hank was sure it hid all sorts of turmoil underneath, but Bobby had always been like that.

And he was charming. Uniformly, to everyone, including the undercover cops that were always nosing round the Park and the smaller Sherman Square. Hank wondered if Bobby even knew what they were. The kid talked his way into social groups, places to stay, jobs. Hank had run into him at various times all over Manhattan: loading vans, running messages, bussing plates at the diner. He figured Bobby was probably delivering for dealers, too; he was small and quick and fairly unobtrusive when he wasn’t acting the fucking class clown.

Today he was wearing a sandwich board advertising some secondhand car dealership – those things went in and out of business on a monthly basis. Bobby was sauntering down the street with Sonny in tow and a dog-end between his lips, passing comment on the people pushing by him.

“Hey,” said Hank, crossing the road and joining them on the sidewalk. “How you been?”

“Freezin’ my balls off.” Bobby grinned at him; seemed he had stopped minding when Hank showed up to check on him. Hank supposed that for Bobby this place now felt like home, like Needle Park was his territory and he was in control of things. Simple kid. Still, he kind of got it: in his suit and his decent wool coat Hank looked like an outsider, even if he understood the losers on these streets ten times better than Bobby ever could. Bobby was a skinny little scruff-bag, and he fit right in.

“You doin’ okay?” asked Hank nonchalantly, lighting up a new smoke. He took a drag and passed it to Bobby, who smiled and stuck it between his teeth. Hank liked that, the touch of Bobby’s lips where his own had been. Stupid thing to notice.

“It’s my birthday, ya know,” Bobby informed him. Sonny looked vaguely surprised, but he was never fully with it at the best of times. Hank curled one side of his mouth up and gestured to the cigarette.

“Yeah, there’s your present.”

“Fuck you, you forgot!”

“Of course,” Hank said, and Bobby snorted. Hank couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or amused, though it would have been pretty optimistic thinking on Bobby’s part to expect his brother to remember a birthday; he hadn’t remembered any of the others. “Eighteen are you, now,” he continued contemplatively. “Dangerous age.” Bobby shot him a sideways look, his big eyes suddenly doubtful.

“For what?” he asked. Hank just gazed at him for a minute. Sonny stood there shivering like the bloodless junkie he was, watching them both vacantly. Hank thought he saw the kid flush, around the tips of his ears, but it was a cold day so hard to be sure. He reached over and took the half-burned cigarette from Bobby’s mouth, inhaling, not looking away. Hank knew he was being a jerk, but he wanted to see if it _was_ the cold or whether he was actually making Bobby uncomfortable. He couldn’t tell.

“Gettin’ in trouble,” Hank told his brother after a pause, letting him off the hook; he knew what Bobby thought he had meant. “The cops catch you doin’ something now, it won’t be juvie, it’ll be jail. So just…watch yourself, yeah?”

“Oh,” said Bobby, his expression clearing and that smile coming back. “Thanks for the advice, but you don’t gotta worry about me. I never do anything wrong.”

“Yeah, and I’m the Virgin Mary.”

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as the phone rang, Hank had a suspicion it would ruin his evening; and he was right. Just not for the reason he was expecting.

“Yeah?” he said cautiously, trapping the receiver between his ear and his shoulder while he tied his shoes. But instead of his mother’s voice, which these days it too often was – seemed he spent more time talking to her since Bobby had left than in all the years since he himself had done so – he heard the vaguely familiar tones of a man.

“Jackson here. Seventeenth.” Fuck. Yes. The cop. “That Hank?”

“How’d you get this number?” asked Hank cagily. It was right, what Bobby liked to boast about him: in all his years of burglary he’d never been caught, never been booked, and had certainly never given the police his details. Of course, thought Hank sourly, Jackson had sort of been handy in that respect: a good old-style crooked American cop. Who would have no trouble sniffing out someone’s phone number.

“Aww, don’t get all pissy, Hank,” came Jackson’s broad Brooklyn accent down the phone. Hank sniffed, but he was listening: if the fucker was about to try and squeeze him over emptying that shoe store last week, he was gonna have to think fast. “Got something that belongs to you.”

“Oh?”

“He’s in a wee spot of bother.”

For an instant Hank was hit with a bright stab of anger; it was gone as soon as it came, but it surprised him because he had felt nothing quite like it since their father had walked out. Jackson was still talking, and Hank didn’t have time to think about what it meant because what the fuck had happened to Bobby?

“…You there?” demanded Jackson.

“Yup.”

“Won’t take much to straighten this out,” the cop said complacently. “Meet me at Lexington and 54th. Bring…whatever you think needs bringing.”

“Sure. Comin’,” replied Hank through gritted teeth. He hung up, cursed to himself, and grabbed his wallet.

 

One hour and one quiet conversation in an alley later, Hank’s wallet was several bills lighter and he had acquired one defiant and miserable sibling.

“He didn’t smack you around, right?” asked Hank quickly, giving Bobby a once-over with his pale stare, his hand tight on Bobby’s shoulder.

“Nah.” Bobby shrugged him off. “But the truck driver nearly gave me a black eye.”

“Serves you fuckin’ right,” said Hank, jerking his head toward the main street and stalking off without waiting for the kid to catch up. “What kind of dumb bastard tries to jack a 7-11 delivery? I mean, talk about a low payout.”

“Shut up,” Bobby muttered, trotting after him; he sounded shook up.

“That all you got to say to me?” Hank turned to look at him.

“…Sorry,” said Bobby, his tone half ungracious and half penitent.

“Moron.” Hank gave his brother a judicious smack across the back of the head. Bobby jerked away; some bad memories surfacing there, no doubt, thought Hank, remembering their father’s habits and feeling bad for a fraction of a second. Then he stopped feeling it, because Bobby was indeed an idiot.

“You’re just lucky it was Jackson caught you,” he told the younger man as they crossed onto 51st. “Not some straight cop.” He nodded across the street, where opposite the police Precinct a blonde young man in a sheepskin jacket was leaning on a VW and talking earnestly to a uniformed officer. “See him?”

“Yeah,” said Bobby, sounding slightly hopeful that he was done being scolded.

“That’s Hotch. He’s a Narco, on your patch. You see him around the Park, you make damn sure you ain’t holdin’ for anyone and just try an’ look innocent.” Bobby gave him a wide-eyed stare with those big peepers of his. “That’s the way,” Hank said drily. Bobby smiled at him tentatively. “Now tell me,” continued Hank, “what the fuck you did that for. You so short on cash you gotta rob convenience-store burritos?”

“…None of your business.”

“Says the little prick who just cost me three hundred bucks to keep him out of a holding cell.” Hank located his cigarettes, lit up and blew a vexed stream of smoke skyward. “You did it, kid,” he told Bobby, who was looking both nettled and half-assedly remorseful. “You stepped over the line, and now you’re gonna be on their radar. Especially if you try and pull some dumb shit like that again. I told ya, didn’t I,” he said, warming to his subject, “you should come to me for help when you need it. Or just give this whole thing up and go back home. Anything to avoid bein’ so genuinely _stupid_!”

“I’m not stupid,” said Bobby hotly, breath coming faster as he tried to match Hank’s stride. “It’s just…hard. Yeah, I needed money. And I can’t just ask you!”

“Why not?” asked Hank curiously. It couldn’t be pride, people who needed cash that bad couldn’t afford to be prideful. Maybe Bobby thought the quid pro quo system of favors and obligations that operated in Needle Park applied to Hank too. Thinking that he owed Hank might make it too…what? Too hard to stay distant?

Well, Bobby sure owed him now.

“You might’ve said no,” said Bobby, apparently unaware of quite how much of a pain in the ass this could end up being, in terms of Hank’s working relationship with Jackson and the general trouble he’d caused.

“I might,” Hank agreed calmly. “Look, if you wanna go thieving then come work for me. Don’t be such an idiot. ‘Cause I ain’t bailing your ass out if you get caught again.”

“Can’t.” Bobby gave him a quick glance that was anxious but quite determined. “You know I can’t, with you.” Hank did know: Bobby was sticking to his guns. Because Hank still made him nervous.

“Well then, good luck to ya.” With that Hank stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, stuck his arm out and with outrageously lucky timing managed to flag down a passing cab. He dropped into it, shook his head as if his brother was a huge personal disappointment, and slammed the door. He could see Bobby’s dismayed face through the glass.

As the cab moved off, Hank felt his mouth stretch into a real smile. Tonight had been fucking ridiculous; he was annoyed and out of pocket and apparently saddled with the dumbest relative imaginable. But dammit, he wasn’t bored.


	3. Chapter 3

The incident was evidently enough to persuade Bobby that a professional career as a thief wasn’t for him. For the next six months Hank was spared any more late-night phone calls, which meant he could get on with his own job. Things were going pretty good, and seemed to be with Bobby too. Hank didn’t see his brother working those random odd jobs anymore, but he didn’t look like he was starving.

It was halfway through Bobby’s eighteenth year when Hank nailed down the kid’s place in the muddled hierarchy of the Park. He was sat in the diner, drinking milk and smoking and watching the view across the street through the dusty glass. He could see Bobby on one of the benches, the center of a shifting group of people; typical Park junkies and dope-heads and hookers. Bobby knew everyone now, and had been beat up by probably half of them: Hank had seen him bruised more times than he could count, but didn’t get involved because here that kind of thing was just daily life.

He’d wondered why, though, given how easy-going and sweet Bobby was most of the time. Sure, he was a pain in the ass, but that was hardly worth the effort it would take to actually beat on him. Now, though, Hank observed the ebb and flow of people around him, the arrivals and departures and the small items that changed hands. Bobby was good at it: the exchanges seemed natural and unobtrusive, but Hank had a practiced eye and he knew his brother. Bobby was dealing.

That explained the bruises, anyway, if people owed him money and he in turn had to kick up to bigger dealers. Hank didn’t know whether to be surprised or not. He supposed Bobby had the brains for it, and could only hope he had developed the street savvy, too.

Hank finished his milk, threw some change on the table and strolled across the road. It was hot, no freshness to the city air even with the sun going down. He waded through the lethargic group surrounding the benches and sat down next to Bobby, nudging aside some sleepy girl with an afro to make room.

“Hey,” said Bobby, who had long since forgotten his awkwardness around Hank following his botched robbery attempt. Compared to the other denizens of the Park, Bobby seemed a repressed ball of energy. “This my weekly check-up, or do you actually want something? ‘Cause I’m kinda busy right now.”

“I can see that.” Hank looked away as a skinny woman came over to speak to Bobby. He listened to his brother joking, heard her dim confusion and then the inevitable veiled request. He didn’t see the packet change hands, but she left looking satisfied so he presumed it had. “What you sellin’?” he asked neutrally. Bobby shrugged.

“Grass? Mostly.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah, well, I got limited career options,” said Bobby. “And I ain’t bad at it.” Hank gestured to a faint mark on Bobby’s pale face.

“But not that great either.”

“It’s nothing,” said Bobby comfortably. Hank made a noncommittal noise, studying Bobby properly: seemed like lately he was even paler than usual, in spite of his apparent financial stability and presumably regular meals. It kinda suited him, made a striking picture with the orange light from the sundown tangling in those stupidly long eyelashes. But attractive or not, it probably spelled trouble.

“Hey, c’mere a minute, will ya?” Hank jerked his thumb over his shoulder, away from the group, and stood up. Bobby squinted up at him. “There _is_ something I wanna talk about,” he explained, meeting Bobby’s eyes coolly. But it seemed like his stare was no longer as unnerving to his brother as before; Bobby looked right back at him for a while, then turned casually and muttered something to the woman – Marcy? – who Hank had displaced. Only then did he bounce up and accompany Hank across the cracked asphalt to one of the shady patches of grass.

Hank leaned back on his elbows. He supposed Bobby’s new-found confidence was a good thing. So long as he didn’t get cocky.

“Well, what is it?” demanded Bobby, dropping down cross-legged beside him.

“This stuff you’re dealing,” said Hank, “you sure you’re just sellin’?” He sensed Bobby stiffen at that. Before the kid could draw away he grabbed Bobby’s wrist and pushed up the long sleeve of his shirt to the crook of his elbow. There, as expected, were the needle marks plain against Bobby’s white skin; not many, but more than enough. Hank looked up at Bobby, and saw that set jaw that spoke to his brother’s temper.

“I hope you know what you’re doin’,” he remarked, not letting go. Bobby gave his arm an experimental tug, then gave up and sat quietly, scowling down at him.

“I just chip. Sometimes. What’s with the dire warning?”

“C’mon, Bobby,” Hank said. “You know our blood. There’s an addictive streak in it a mile wide. Just look at who spawned us!”

“Oh yeah?” countered Bobby, passing over that barbed comment about their parents. “What about you, then? I know you got your own dealer.” Hank raised an eyebrow.

“Well if ya know so much, you know how rarely I use. It ain’t a habit. And I’m the only one in this family who’s anything like a success story -” Bobby rolled his eyes at that “- so it don’t apply to me.”

“It’s not a habit for me, either,” Bobby insisted. His pulse was fast but steady under Hank’s fingers. “Just…sometimes.”

“Since when?” asked Hank, taking care to keep the usual smartass tone out of his voice, because he really wanted to know. “What’s brought this on, huh?” Bobby narrowed his eyes and gazed across the Square at the gray buildings; somewhere behind them the sun was going down, now blocked from view like anything else beautiful that tried to find its way in here. Hank waited patiently.

“I been visiting Mom,” said Bobby at last. “That’s what.”

“Oh, good. Does that mean I can stop?”

“You’re a cold son of a bitch,” Bobby told him bitterly. Hank smiled up at him.

“Ya say that like it’s a bad thing. Tell me, Bobby,” he continued, giving the kid’s wrist a shake, “it make you happy, seeing her like that? The way she talks to you?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Well then. If it’s a choice between feelin’ nothing and being goddam miserable every time I go by to pay her rent, sign me up for the big freeze.” Bobby laughed shortly at that, the corners of his mouth turned down. Really, thought Hank, he was a dopey soft thing. Hank didn’t have much of a sense of guilt, but Bobby’s was obviously over-developed if their mother was still causing him this much grief. Maybe the junk did help.

“…It’s not like I’d go back,” Bobby said. “I mean, she’s impossible. But it sucks I can’t do anything for her.”

“You dope,” said Hank, not unkindly. Bobby had nothing to say to that, so they just sat there. It was getting dark now, and a dusty breeze had come up, blowing shadows across Bobby’s face. After a while Hank found himself smoothing his thumb across the veins in Bobby’s skinny wrist, back and forth like he was petting a cat. He wondered if he was trying to be comforting – not likely – or whether he just enjoyed the skin contact.

Bobby sighed, but he didn’t shiver like he used to, didn’t get all skittish. What did that mean? Hank didn’t know, so after a minute he let go and sat up. Bobby turned to look at him, depressed but unfazed. The lack of tension, that was new. Hank thought he might miss it, and wondered if that said more about him than Bobby.

“Just look after yourself,” he said, nudging Bobby’s shoulder with his own. “I’ll take care of Mom. But I can’t deal with two addicts, and if it’s a choice between her or you…”

“I can’t stop goin’ to see her,” Bobby replied anxiously, conveniently ignoring Hank’s last remark. “I gotta do _something_ right. The other stuff just…makes it feel less shitty.”

“Take care she don’t turn you religious,” Hank warned him with a resurgence of his usual crooked grin. “You already got the whole martyr act down pat.”

“Fuck off,” said Bobby tiredly. Hank got up, brushed himself down and dug in his pockets. He held out a fifty and Bobby took it without protest.

“At least buy the high-quality shit.”

Bobby nodded, though it was getting too dark to see his expression. On a whim Hank reached out and patted him on the head; it was pretty rare these days that he touched Bobby without purpose or deliberate forethought, so it came as quite a surprise even to him. For a moment his fingers twined affectionately in Bobby’s scruffy mop of hair. Bobby didn’t freeze, or move away, or encourage him. He just took a little breath and let Hank have his odd moment.

Hank thought maybe this was it, that Bobby had finally made peace with his messed-up feelings, and that this was as far as the two of them would ever go.   
And for the next eighteen months he was proved right.

 

* * *

 

 

Hank knocked on the door; the bell was still broken, but then welcoming visitors probably wasn’t high on his mother’s list of priorities. Several seconds passed before the door opened, and Hank was surprised to see Bobby’s face appear in the gap instead of hers. It was a much better view, mind.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Hank asked. Bobby wore a harried expression, but that was how most people ended up looking after spending any amount of time in this dump. Not everyone was lucky enough to be detached from it all.

“The usual,” said Bobby gloomily. “But she’s not so bad today. Rizzo’s been round.”

“Terrific.” Hank had no opinion whatever about the local priest, but he tended to leave a preachy aftermath. “That mean I’m in for a scripture lesson?”

“You only came to give her money, right?” said Bobby in an undertone, glancing back into the apartment. “You don’t haveta stay, just hand it over and go.” Hank had intended to do exactly that, but now Bobby was here he decided to hang around. So he gave his brother an at least partly genuine smile and moved past him into the house. Bobby sighed and shut the door.

Their mother greeted Hank with a vague stare that was somehow defensive, with a hint of put-upon belligerence; it was much more pronounced now than it had been in the past, when she had just seemed permanently wilting. Hank thought Bobby’s diagnosis of _not too bad_ was a little off, but she never exactly looked delighted to see him at the best of times.

“Henry,” she said tightly, in her quiet voice. She had a glass in hand already, Hank noticed. It made for a pretty dejected picture, and he might even have felt sorry for her if it wasn’t for the nasty glance she shot at Bobby, like he’d invited Hank round on purpose so they could gang up on her.

“How you feeling, Mom?” Hank looked pointedly at her glass; he guessed the bottle was under the table, which was dumb: the stuff she was drinking might look like water, but it wasn’t fooling anybody. How long would it be before she stopped bothering to hide it? She ignored Hank’s barbed comment, started talking to Bobby instead, and the conversation lapsed into the dull – god, it was dull – atmosphere that pervaded their mother’s space, so after ten minutes it seemed like he’d been sitting here an eternity. The tap was dripping too, like it had been for weeks, as if the landlord was trying out some weird form of Chinese water torture.

“The O’Reilly girl just got married,” said their mother. Hank, half listening to the tap and half watching Bobby, whose stance was somewhere between bored and depressed, wondered why she thought they would possibly be interested in the Irish gang down the hall. “She’s taking Margaret to the new house to live with them.”

“Lucky them.” That explained it: just another dig at him about kids who took proper care of their parents.

“She’s a good girl; Margaret was always fortunate. I prayed not to have boys, you know,” their mother added, apparently not done with the filial child theme. “Not that anybody listened.” Hank leaned his chin in his hand, his expression not changing because this was nothing new to him. Bobby looked miserable. “What do boys know?” she continued. “They’re no help around the house, no help to my mind, my heart.” She punctuated her words with an over-dramatic gesture that must have come from the gin, thought Hank, because she had always been an unobtrusive woman, if only to avoid drawing the attention of her husband.

“But at least we’re a help to your wallet,” he said drily. She shook her head and took a long swallow from her glass, and as usual Hank knew she wasn’t really listening.

“Will you wind your mouth in?!” Bobby hissed at him behind his hand. “You’re makin’ her worse.” Hank shrugged.

“I knew if I had sons they’d turn out like Frank.” At the sound of their father’s name Hank felt himself stiffen, and noticed Bobby doing the same.

“Pay no attention,” he told his brother under his breath; some part of him wanted to reach over and touch Bobby, while the rest of him was tempted to simply walk out. But he’d stay until Bobby left. Hank had heard this spiel before, anyway, and it had stopped bothering him months ago; but judging by Bobby’s pained expression it was either brand new or hadn’t yet lost its sting.

“…I nearly had a daughter,” their mother said softly, her eyes on the far wall, “but the Lord took her away.” Hank did look at her then, surprised. He heard Bobby’s sharp intake of breath. “That was when I lost my faith. And then I had you.” Her gaze flicked toward her youngest son. Bobby’s eyes were wide, his mouth set tight in shock, because her tone showed exactly what she thought of having another boy.

“But he was an improvement on me, at least, right?” commented Hank. He could feel a low burn of anger in his stomach now, not because this new revelation had any personal impact on himself but because – more and more it seemed – he didn’t care to see Bobby get hurt. He didn’t quite know if this was just her drunkenly reminiscing, or whether she was being truly spiteful. Either way, Bobby was a far less deserving target than Hank.

“Oh, there was nothing wrong with you, Henry,” said their mother, focusing on him suddenly and making a dismissive motion with an unsteady hand. “Not when you were small. You went bad because you _chose_ to.” Hank gave his usual half-smile; he wouldn’t argue with that.

“Both of you,” interjected Bobby, looking more than slightly overloaded now, “can’t you stop gettin’ at each other for five minutes? We just came to check you’re doin’ okay, Mom, we didn’t mean to upset you.” Hank subsided triumphantly, though he didn’t know why Bobby bothered making the effort.

Their mother also shut up, looking thoughtful. After a minute Bobby got up to make coffee, but there wasn’t any so he settled for water, which she declined in favor of her usual choice. Hank sensed Bobby was keeping his hands active to try and take his mind off what their mother had said. Hank hadn’t known they’d had a sister, and the thought didn’t particularly affect him now, though he was slightly envious she’d never lived to endure this car-crash of a family. He was also quite aware of how their mother felt about her sons; no wonder Bobby looked like he needed a fix. Frankly, Hank couldn’t blame him.

By then Hank had got bored, so he wandered down to give the rent to their skinflint landlord directly. He killed a bit of time complaining about the damp, not that it did any good, then climbed back upstairs. He walked into the kitchen just in time to hear their mother say, without a shade of beating about the bush,

“If your father hadn’t been around I’d have done something.” She wasn’t looking at Bobby, but it was so clearly directed at him that Hank could practically see him brace himself.

“Shut up, Mom,” he heard himself say, instinctively wanting to cut her off. Was he imagining that edge to his voice? He never let her rile him like this. She ignored him.

“If Frank hadn’t been here,” she continued, “and I’d known you weren’t going to be a girl, weren’t going to be any companion to me…Well. It’s against God, Father Rizzo tells me. But I wouldn’t have let you be born.”

Bobby had his mouth covered with his fingers, jaw tight and eyes absolutely huge in his pale face. Hank couldn’t quite believe she’d said it; he’d known she resented them leaving home, known she had a vindictive streak that had probably come down to him. But to throw out a line like that, and at his soppy little brother of all people…That was something else.

“C’mon,” he said to Bobby, crossing the room and laying a hand on his collar. “Time to go.” Their mother almost looked pleased. It occurred to Hank that maybe this was what she’d wanted: to wallow in her self-pity alone. Though he had no doubt she’d turn it round on them when she was bemoaning her sad fucking situation to Rizzo later.

Hank didn’t even try to be civil this time; for once in his life he thought he literally couldn’t. He just led Bobby unprotestingly across the kitchen and let the door slam behind them.

Outside the wind was getting up; it always was on this floor, where the broken windows at the ends of the hallways created an audible tunnel of freezing air. Bobby shivered. He still hadn’t said anything. Hank guessed that most of his visits didn’t go as bad as this one; probably Hank hadn’t really helped.

“You okay?” he inquired calmly, slinging one arm across his brother’s shoulders. He could feel the tremors beneath Bobby’s thin jacket.

“…You always gotta make things worse, don’t you.” Bobby looked like he wanted to shrug Hank off but lacked the energy, though he did gradually stop shivering as Hank’s stocky frame blocked some of the wind.

“That is my M.O.,” replied Hank. “Apparently.”

“You know she doesn’t mean it,” Bobby went on. To Hank he sounded unconvinced. “Sometimes she’s nice to me. She’s just lonely.”

“Yeah, well, she ain’t gonna make many friends like that.” Bobby pursed his lips, long lashes flickering like he might have a cry right here on the stairs. Hank gave his shoulder a rough squeeze, then patted him bracingly on the back. “Let’s just get back. I’m sure you got places to be. Forget about her, yeah?”

He steered Bobby away from the building, down the gray and blustery streets toward the station. Bobby kept his lip zipped the whole way, though Hank could sense his brain ticking away silently, no doubt hurting itself even worse with each replay of their mother’s cruel jabs.

On the subway car Bobby clung to the frayed handhold with white knuckles so as not to get bumped by the other freaks who took the train; it seemed to Hank that his brother was lacking his usual balance, the flexible energy that let him slip through Manhattan unnoticed. It had to be her fault. That or Bobby needed something, and so bad his coordination was shot. Hank thought he knew what it was.

“That much worse than usual, was it?” he murmured in the direction of Bobby’s ear. Bobby nodded dumbly. “You got something that’ll help you relax?” A frustrated shake of the head.

“You ain’t holdin’?” Hank asked, aware that he ought to be glad of the fact but at the same time concerned for his brother’s current state. “Some dealer you are.”

“It’s a dry spell.” Bobby was white as a sheet now; the air of the train and the smell from the other passengers probably didn’t help. Hank gave a half-shrug.

“Yeah, I know. Feds stopped a shipment last month.” Bobby nodded miserably. “If you need to so bad,” said Hank, in a voice just loud enough to be heard above the rattle of the subway, “I got enough stuff for you right here. It’s good, too.” That got Bobby’s attention.

“You’re saying…” His wistful gaze darted to Hank’s pockets.

“I’m sayin’ I’ll give it to you,” confirmed Hank. “Just this once.” He felt both amused at Bobby’s disbelief – really, did he think Hank was such a killjoy? – and sorry for his hopeless state. Hank didn’t mind donating his fix, because some of that misery was maybe his fault; as long as he got to control the experience. “You got a place right now?”

“Yeah, Marcy’s guy is sublettin’ me his room.”

“Charming,” said Hank, who had a vague idea where it was and didn’t think much of the neighbors. “C’mon, then, it’s this stop.”

 

The room was as dismal as Hank had imagined, and was hardly likely to make Bobby feel any better; in fact it matched his brother’s mood perfectly. Hank sat down on the bed, it being the only seat in the room, and under the glare from the bare lightbulb began to get things ready.

“I can do it,” said Bobby avidly, sitting down behind him.

“No,” Hank scolded him; he trusted his own hands more than Bobby’s, and he had a system. He flicked open his lighter. “A little fuckin’ fortitude, if you please.”

Bobby watched him hungrily; it might have been a pleasant sensation if his eyes had been on Hank’s face and not on the spoon, but what could you do? The kid looked almost desperate. Hank aimed a few choice curses at the specter of their mother, then turned to Bobby.

“Sleeve up,” he ordered. Bobby tightened the belt around his upper arm with practiced if nervous fingers. Hank took hold of his wrist, slid his hand up to the crook of Bobby’s elbow. Not too many track marks in his pale skin, but enough to make him think Bobby oughta cut down on the family visits. He pressed his thumb thoughtfully against the vulnerable flesh, felt Bobby flinch.

“You gotta do everything, control freak?” asked Bobby in a low voice. “Hurry up.”

“Shut up.” Hank tapped the syringe – clean, everything he had was clean and he hoped Bobby could say the same. “Just relax. I’m here. Forget about all that shit today.”

Bobby didn’t make a sound when the needle went in, just took a little breath. In an odd way it felt intimate, Hank’s grip on Bobby’s bare arm, Bobby’s head close to his own. He couldn’t decide if he liked it or not.

“There ya go.” He grabbed the younger man as he started to sway and eased him back against the headboard. Bobby let out a long sigh; Hank could imagine how he felt, it was top-quality stuff, stuff you used for a treat. Bobby was probably due a treat.

“Not going back there,” Bobby told him, in a moment of chemical-assisted clarity. “Too fuckin’…hard.”

“Hope you remember that later,” said Hank, carefully removing the needle and pressing a cotton swab to the puncture.

“Ain’t you gonna…?” Bobby managed before his eyes slipped closed. Hank didn’t bother replying, as there was small chance of him being heard now; and besides, he wasn’t sure what Bobby was asking. Whatever it was, the answer was no.

Hank made sure his brother was comfortable, then leaned back and let him enjoy it in peace. For the next couple of hours he kept himself busy with the fine details of a job he was scheduled to do for Bruno, his Lucchese contact. It was so helpful to have a brain, reflected Hank, seeing as Bobby like this was no entertainment at all; slouched like a puppet with all its strings cut.

He came out of his reverie to take a piss, which he’d been putting off ‘cause the room was damn freezing. Bobby had moved when he sat back down, apparently having shifted from the coma of his drug high into almost regular sleep. Hank looked at him carefully, wondering when it would be all right to leave; not like Bobby hadn’t chipped before, but there were so many fucking stupid ways for users to die on accident.

Bobby was shifting laboriously in his sleep, his brow furrowed, trying to find a spot where the bedsprings weren’t coming through. Hank amused himself just watching for a while, then grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him over so his head was pillowed on Hank’s leg. Bobby grumbled to himself and settled down. Hank absently dragged his fingers through Bobby’s black hair, put all his anger at their mother on the back burner, and let himself relax. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a bad afternoon in the end.


	4. Chapter 4

Bobby was as good as his word: he didn’t go back. Hank was glad of it, for Bobby’s sake as well as the bonus of spiting their mother. He knew he was being petty, and nasty; he just couldn’t find it in himself to give a rat’s ass. He turned up promptly with the rent, made sure she had whatever she said she needed, and left it at that. Since making that vile comment she hadn’t said anything else bad about Bobby; in fact, he came out rather better than Hank in their mother’s caustic monologues. But Hank had no intention of encouraging his brother back to see her.

After that day, Bobby didn’t mention her once. But for all that, her presence seemed to hang on him even more heavily than when she was in the room. Bobby was thoroughly, quietly miserable; Hank wasn’t too sure if that was the result of what their mother had said to him, or the knowledge that they’d lost a sibling, or some useless guilt over being a bad son. Knowing Bobby it was probably all three. Still, at least he was using the junk less often.

“Would you like me to reach out?” asked Father Rizzo, who couldn’t resist sticking his oar in. That was his job, and Hank didn’t particularly blame him. He just didn’t appreciate being collared in the drafty road beside their mother’s apartment building. Hank wanted to get out of there, go meet some people and have a drink, and yet here he was. “I could mediate, if your brother wants to talk things out.”

“No thanks.” Hank turned his collar up.

“Elaine knows what she said. She knows it was hurtful,” said Rizzo. Hank curled his lip. “But they were just words; that’s a terrible reason to force a family apart. She’s trying to better herself, you know.”

Hank folded his arms and looked at the priest curiously. He clearly wasn’t a stupid man, and Hank knew he had been around when Bobby was visiting. So how could he miss the constant, bitter undercurrent of emotional abuse his brother had had to put up with? Observing him at close range, Rizzo was older than Hank had thought, maybe forty; it must be the eager posture and the air of weird optimism that made him seem young. Hank supposed that was what people termed the Christian spirit. But how could it operate in this hellhole? He wondered if Rizzo was naïve enough to be naturally blind to the crap that went on among the denizens of his parish, or whether he had intentionally made himself that way because it was too depressing not to.

“We’re fine as we are,” Hank stated, beginning to edge away onto the street. Rizzo kept pace with him instead of taking the hint.

“I guess you are,” said the priest. “But she’s still a mother. You’re still her children, and I can’t help but feel that you and Bobby will regret not spending this time with her one day.”

“Meaning?”

“She’s not the healthiest woman,” Rizzo said diplomatically. “She won’t check into a clinic. The Church would help her, financially and spiritually, but she’ll have none of it.”

“No, she wouldn’t,” said Hank, smiling humorlessly. That would be too kind to everyone.

“What I’m saying is, you boys should be building bridges: treasure the years you have with her. Because at this rate there might not be too many.” Hank was aware of that. He was further aware that he should feel bad, and maybe somewhere he did; but whatever the feeling was, he was blessedly detached from it. He made a non-committal noise. Rizzo glanced over at him, met his eyes and quickly let his gaze shift focus.

“Will you at least have a word with Bobby?” asked the priest. “Just…pass on what I told you. He can make his own choice then.”

“Yeah, all right,” said Hank smoothly. Rizzo smiled at that, an open and affable smile so unlike Hank’s own. He shook hands with Hank, spotted some churchgoer across the street, and jogged off to bother them.

Hank sighed, and went to pick up something to eat; he would swing by and see Bobby on his way home, at least make sure he was fed. He supposed he could help his brother rebuild some kind of relationship with their mother; both of them were glum as hell and it probably couldn’t make them much worse. He could and should pass on Rizzo’s message. But for whatever reason – whether it was protecting Bobby or punishing her – he knew he wouldn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

It didn’t matter for long. Two weeks later their mother was in the hospital, and Hank was relieved of the decision.

Ironically, you could have said that the liquor had nothing to do with it in the end, if she hadn’t been so tight on mixed drinks from the Atlantis Bar that she fell twenty feet off a fairground ride. When Hank heard that he actually laughed, it sounded so surreal; until the cop on his doorstep gave him such an incredulous look he had to force himself to suppress it.

“Sorry,” said Hank, “hysterical reaction. Just tell me again…what the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“Your _mother_ ,” stated the cop, looking stone-faced, which only made Hank want to laugh again, although there was nothing amusing about it, “got on a rollercoaster drunk. On Coney Island.” Hank didn’t think an unlikelier sentence had ever been spoken. “Witnesses say she was so thin she evaded the safety bar, stood up on the ascent and fell out of the car. She afraid of heights? Could have panicked.”

“I have no idea,” said Hank, unable to wrap his head around the image. “What the hell was she doin’ on a goddam rollercoaster?” The cop looked as mystified as he felt. “Well, where is she now?”

“Bellevue. You better come as soon as you can; if you want we can give you a ride. The priest with her says you’re next of kin.”

“What,” asked Hank sharply, “it’s as bad as that?”

“You’ll have to talk to the doctors.” Which meant yes.

“I’ll make my own way there,” said Hank, who wasn’t getting in any cop car. “I gotta tell my brother.”

But he went to the hospital first; heard what they had to say. Then he sat down and thought for a bit. He didn’t know if this was the worst day of his life or the happiest. Or just any other day. The only time he felt anything was when he had to tell Bobby their mother was going to die.

He watched Bobby sitting by her bed in the ICU, and half wished this hadn’t happened at all; Bobby looked awful, and their mother seemed…helpless, and not in the resentful, draining way she’d been ever since their dad walked out. She was just pitiful – how a victim ought to look – and right in front of his eyes Hank could see the guilt crash down on his brother.

“What _happened_?” demanded Bobby, half to Hank and half to her, it seemed.

“She fell off a ride at Astroland,” Hank explained again. It didn’t sound any less grotesque and hilarious the second time.

“What the fuck was she doin’ there?!”

“Church outing,” said Hank, trying not to smirk – even he wasn’t that goddam disrespectful, with their mother on life support in front of them. “With Rizzo and the mothers’ group and their kids. Too bad she spent half the day in the Boardwalk bars.”

“That’s just…” tried Bobby, his poor face agitated and absolutely perplexed. “I mean, it’s…Christ’s sake, Mom…” His expression crumpled.

“I know,” Hank agreed. That was what you got, he thought privately, for trying to have fun like a normal person; you came from this family, any attempt like that was probably fucking doomed on principle. Well, that was God for you, and if it had happened to him or Bobby their mother would most likely say it was a judgement on them. So this was the punishment for shitty parenting? You went on a day trip for mothers under the useless auspices of your Church, got drunk and broke your skull and your spine. Jesus, religion was weird; although in this case karma seemed pretty accurate.

While Hank was puzzling himself with philosophical thoughts that weren’t his forte, Bobby was feeling bad enough for both of them.

“Mom,” murmured Bobby for the third time, his voice shaking, pale hand clinging to the bed rail, “I’m _sorry_ …You know that, right?”

“She can’t hear ya,” said Hank, who wasn’t feeling particularly great either, although he had yet to decide why. “Anyway, ain’t like you pushed her off the Cyclone.”

It had occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, this hadn’t been an accident; that she had stood up on purpose. That she’d had enough. He just hoped Bobby hadn’t thought the same thing. They’d never know either way, but the kid would be bound to blame himself.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” asked Bobby in a low voice. He looked up at Hank like he was crazy.

“Don’t know,” said Hank honestly. Bobby shot him a furious glance. Hank thought about faking some misery, but just couldn’t work himself up to it. On one hand this picture of their mother, so quiet and unthreatening with tubes in her mouth and needles in her arm, was making him genuinely sorry for her. For the first time in what felt like years, he remembered what it had been like to grow up: the three of them sharing the same low-grade horror of living with their father, no wonder it had worn her down. She’d been kind to Bobby back then, and perhaps he oughta have taken that into account when she’d turned impossible later.

On the other hand, thought Hank, this was so like her: she couldn’t go out cleanly. She had to hang on and let Bobby see her decline, drag up all that painful remorse that his brother had just begun to get free from. And for that he resented her more than ever.

“We shoulda done better for her,” said Bobby with finality, fingers over his mouth. Hank sighed and kept his thoughts to himself, but set one hand supportively on the back of his chair. Bobby leaned back, and stopped talking.

 

Bobby was asleep when their mother passed. If Hank was grateful to her for anything, it might as well be for that.

 

* * *

 

 

The funeral was small. Not that they had expected anything else; still, Hank thought the empty service chapel at Calvary made Bobby angry. There was Father Rizzo, of course, looking suitably repentant for taking their mother to an amusement park of all places; and a few older people from their mother’s church – Hank had had to meet them all, and god, they were as dull as she had been her whole life up until that last day.

He himself was there out of duty, and to look after his brother, who was pale and frozen beside him in a suit from the Goodwill. The only people there because they had _cared_ were Bobby and their mother’s cousin, Carm, who had thankfully arrived from Rochester as soon as Rizzo called her and had seen to the insignificant details of the funeral arrangements.

Hank found Carm extremely irritating, though he couldn’t quite tell if it was all _her_ or whether he was having some residual feelings about his mother, now that she was gone; their cousin looked a bit like her, he thought. Either way, they didn’t get on. Carm wasn’t given to subtlety, and made no bones about the fact she disapproved of him. She disapproved of Bobby too, but only because she thought he was dumb. Hank supposed she was warm and open and kind, and all that; but he didn’t like how she babied his brother. Still, she’d been useful to have around.

The service went on and on. Hank was next to Bobby, of course; he wasn’t doing great, Hank could feel it in the air between them, an almost physical tremble of agitation; depression, and some anger, though he wasn’t sure at whom it was directed. Hank listened to the readings dispassionately, and stared around the bare chapel. He wondered if it would be the same when he kicked the bucket; he was fully aware that in his own way he was just as disagreeable as their mother, so he probably shouldn’t expect a big send-off.

Bobby’s chilly hand touched his sleeve and held on. Hank was pleased: at least one person here felt attached to him. He glanced at Bobby; his lips were set in that tight line, and Hank didn’t know what his grip meant: whether he was holding on because he felt vulnerable or because he was furious.

“Nearly there,” he told Bobby under his breath. Bobby exhaled in a faint white cloud; it was freezing even inside. When they went out to the burial plot the cemetery was bleached with patchy snow; along the path to the grave it had turned to slush the color of the headstones.

Another age, and then it was done. Hank relaxed, gave his brother a bracing pat on the shoulder. Bobby didn’t react.

Wondering how soon they’d be able to escape, Hank left him and went to speak to the priest, who, given the occasion and the fact he’d never have to clap eyes on Hank again, seemed to be making a sincere effort to conceal his ambivalence toward him. Hank didn’t care much either way, but it was as easy to be civil as not.

“There’ll be some things for you to sign later,” Rizzo said, “but take your time.” Hank nodded. “If Bobby needs some help, or someone to talk to, he can call me or my adjunct any time.”

“He’ll be okay once we get out of here,” replied Hank shortly; he noticed Rizzo hadn’t bothered to offer any religious solace to _him_. Not that it was surprising; the priest appeared to be one of those people who couldn’t meet Hank’s pale eyes, and he had never been thrilled at his attitude toward their mother.

“Well.” Rizzo directed his gaze away from Hank’s face. “Be that as it may, he looks like he could use some support. Especially in this sad time.”

Hank looked aside from Rizzo and across the grave in a vague effort to seem less hostile. Carm was still crying in the kind of way that wouldn’t mess with her overdone makeup. Bobby was stuck between two of the church women; he wasn’t sure if they were talking to him or just over his head, but either way he didn’t seem happy about it. Hank rudely sidled away from the priest.

Rizzo was right: Bobby looked like he was going to be sick, or maybe have a panic attack. Hank took him by the elbow and led him away from the thin group of mourners, through the slush and back into the service building. He pushed open a random door and found the bland waiting room again. Bobby’s arm was shivering in his grasp.

“Chill out,” Hank instructed, pushing Bobby into a chair. “Or warm up, whichever’s wrong with you.”

“I’m okay,” said Bobby, getting right back up. “Fuck. I just…can’t deal with those people right now.”

“Calm down.” Hank shucked his gloves and stuck them in his pockets. “What’s the matter?” Bobby was fiddling with his tie neurotically; wasn’t used to wearing one. He looked pretty twitchy. What was it? Grief or discomfort or maybe just itching for a hit? More like all three.

“Those guys don’t know anything,” said Bobby miserably. “Being so nice to me, so nice about Mom, they got no idea how fuckin’ bad we were to her.”

“Oh,” said Hank, unmoved. So that was the problem. “Well if it makes ya feel any better, behind your back they’re probably tellin’ each other what little shits we are.” Bobby let out a humorless breath of laughter.

“Yeah, that feels terrific. Some comfort you are.”

“Best I got,” said Hank, watching Bobby fidget. “Like I ever minded what people think. I told you, years ago, remember? I don’t give a shit about any other person: not those nosy fucks, they’re nothin’ to me. Not Mom, what did she ever do for us?” Bobby shook his head, and Hank folded his arms. “I only care about you,” he stated flatly. “You’re the only decent thing this family ever gave me.”

“…I’m no good,” said Bobby numbly.

“Neither am I,” said Hank. “Ya think that matters to me?” He thought for a minute, and came to a decision. “You don’t gotta deal with this shit by yourself, Bobby. Come stay with me, I’ll look after you. God knows I’d be better at it than her.”

Bobby’s eyes widened in surprise, before his pale lips tightened at the allusion to their mother. So much damn guilt, thought Hank, and for what? For not being the perfect son to The Bowery’s shittiest parents? He wondered if visiting the woman had maybe turned Bobby Catholic, or whether he was still just sensitive. He’d thought Needle Park would’ve knocked that out of him by now.

“I don’t need looking after,” Bobby told him stiffly, as though he wasn’t totally messed up.

“All right,” said Hank equably. He took a step closer. “Then come ‘cause I want you around.” Bobby glanced up sharply at that, huge dark eyes scanning Hank’s face to try and figure out where this was going. Hank knew his expression never slipped unless he wanted it to. But seemed Bobby was reading whatever he felt like.

“…What’ll happen if I go with you?” asked Bobby after a hushed pause, and there was that old tension back in his voice, the fight-or-flight poise in his skinny body. Hank was pleased, and realized he had missed it more than he had known: the knowledge that Bobby had these feelings, and that he _knew_ Hank knew.

“Whatever you want,” Hank promised. He meant it, too. “Nothin’ that you don’t start first.”

“Whatever I want,” said Bobby faintly, as if he couldn’t quite believe they were discussing this out loud. “…Isn’t that what you want too?”

“Your choice,” said Hank, with a shrug. “This is about _you_ , Bobby. I don’t mind either way, long as you’re happy.” Bobby looked appalled.

“You _can’t_ be so calm about this. You can’t be that cold!”

“Ya do know me, right?” said Hank with his one-sided smile.

“You should be fuckin’ disgusted,” Bobby told him hotly. “If you were normal. Or else you _are_ as screwed up as me, and you want…well, you know what I want, I can’t help it.” He looked nauseated. “You can’t possibly be _neutral_. It’s like…psychopathic.”

“Oh?” Hank drew himself up to his full height. “You sayin’ I should be acting more like this?” He reached out as he spoke and grabbed Bobby by his suit lapels, dragging him close and looming over him.

“ _Lay off_ ,” said Bobby in a shaking voice. Hank bent his head toward the smaller man, and it did feel good, he couldn’t deny it, having Bobby near him like this. Bobby’s hands were pulling at his wrists, pretty ineffectually, before their grip began to loosen and they slid down, fingertips coming to rest plaintively on Hank’s forearms. Bobby took a gulp of air, then expelled it in a harsh sigh as Hank leaned down further to nudge his nose against Bobby’s cheek.

“This make you feel better?” demanded Hank softly, his mouth beside Bobby’s ear. He released one of the crumpled lapels and spread his palm flat across the base of Bobby’s throat; he could feel his pulse going, quick as a rabbit’s. “This how your big brother should act?”

“No,” insisted Bobby, almost inaudibly. Bad liar, thought Hank. Though you could accuse him of the same thing: contrary to what he had just told Bobby, in this moment Hank didn’t feel very neutral. Sure, some of it was the usual anticipation of seeing what his brother would do; but some of it wasn’t. Hank felt hungry. He didn’t want to wait and see; he wanted to kiss Bobby.

He’d think about what that meant later. For now, he removed his lips from the vicinity of Bobby’s ear and fixed him with his slate-blue stare. Bobby was frowning with his eyes closed, a look of fierce concentration as if he could make Hank disappear into the floor just by wishing it. Hank could feel Bobby’s breath soft on his mouth, and when he tugged Bobby up to meet him there was no resistance, just a kind of glad resignation. He felt his stomach clench with excitement.

The clang of something hitting the metal radiator in the hallway snapped him out of it. Hank straightened up quickly and pushed Bobby away to arm’s length, swallowing down his own breathlessness. It took only a few seconds for him to regain his usual state of equilibrium, and when Father Rizzo walked in with Carm at his heels they were greeted by the sight of Hank leaning against the wall and nonchalantly lighting up while Bobby stood there with his arms wrapped around himself, pale and flushed at the same time and looking like he was about to lose the plot.

Of course that got Bobby all the familial and pastoral sympathy, him looking so small and stricken as he did, while Hank was given polite disapproval by Father Rizzo and a series of dirty looks by Carm.

“C’mon, Bobby, honey,” said Carm, in a more motherly fashion than their own departed parent had ever spoken, her arm around Bobby’s shoulders. “Come and have a drink with me. We gotta give Elaine a wake, haven’t we? And I’ve come all this way. There’s a good boy…”

“You can talk to him normally,” Hank said drily. “He ain’t a baby.” That earned him two more looks.

“Yes he is.” Carm gave Bobby’s arm a squeeze, which made Hank curl his lip: Bobby was a little firecracker, Carm had no idea. He didn’t need the soft treatment, it would only make him feel more guilty and upset. What Bobby needed was to get pissed off, get drunk and forget. Hank thought that sounded pretty appealing himself.

“Bobby,” said Hank, and those big eyes turned in his direction. Hank found it amazing that only he could see it, the anger and sheer complicity in Bobby’s gaze; but he supposed it was there just for him. He liked that. “You comin’ back with me?” he asked. Saw Bobby’s eyes widen: Hank knew as well as Bobby what would happen if he went with him now; what had almost happened right here in this room. And he didn’t mind. He more than didn’t mind.

“…I better go with Aunt Carm,” murmured Bobby at last. His cousin and the priest nodded approvingly. Hank shrugged; that was an end to it, then. He wouldn’t give Bobby this much prompting again. Hank followed Father Rizzo back to his office for some no doubt tedious paperwork, while Carm led Bobby toward the main room of the chapel. As they parted ways Hank saw Bobby glance over his shoulder and give him a fleeting, regretful look before the door closed on him.

Ah well. Hank had got some food for thought, as well as a pleasant scene to replay in his head when he wanted to feel that charge of barely-controlled excitement again. He looked forward to what it would tell him about Bobby; and what he might discover about himself.


	5. PART 2

It didn’t take Hank too many weeks to notice that Bobby was experiencing as much genuine grief as he was guilt, or – and the two things were surely linked – that Bobby was genuinely using. In fact, thought Hank grimly, as he sat opposite his slack-limbed and almost comatose brother in the diner, he’d have to go further than that: the junk had Bobby hooked. The addict’s streak running through their family veins had got its claws in him at last. This, like every other fucking thing wrong with Bobby, was their parents’ fault.

Hank didn’t know how he would react if something happened to Bobby. He just knew it would be bad. So instead of settling in to see what would happen – letting Bobby get on with his life and being fascinated by his failures as well as his triumphs, which had always done it for Hank up to now – he decided to take steps to prevent it.

For starters, he made a deal with a couple of the Families he had connections with: he’d forgo payment on his next bit of freelance work, and they’d make sure the dealers knew not to sell junk to Bobby. He was aware that this would put a severe crimp in his brother’s own livelihood, but Bobby could still push grass and pills and whatever else he was messing around with. It was gonna be a shitty time for him, sure, but he was already having a bad time; and Hank would be there to play the supportive big brother.

But a month later Bobby was still getting high. Hank had grown to actively dislike it by now, the sight of Bobby’s unresponsive face and the reduction of his personality to two basic gears: the dumb bliss when he was using and the almost violent temper when he was trying to score. Of course, realized Hank, Bobby was being supplied by his loser friends now that he couldn’t go to the dealers; he must have had some extra cash stashed away, or else had just stopped eating to pay for the habit. So Hank had to step in personally.

It wasn’t too difficult to put the fear of God into Bobby’s junkie crowd. Hank just picked one, coolly beat him bloody, and made it clear that anyone who supplied his brother would get the same. Nobody had any trouble believing it, thanks to the fundamental difference between the two of them. Everyone _liked_ Bobby, even when they were kicking his ass or vice versa; whereas even the people who respected Hank found him unpleasant or downright creepy. The only person who actually liked Hank was Bobby. And even that was surely a matter of time.

 

“You fuckin’ _bastard_!” Hank knew his curb was working when Bobby came at him one evening, exploding with the latent temper that meant he hadn’t scored. Hank hadn’t banked on the kid taking him on in public, mind, and before he could get up from his chair in the diner Bobby had socked him right in the mouth. That was a surprise all right, but for the moment Hank was too sore to be amused by it. He blinked, waited for his vision to steady, and got calmly to his feet.

“I know it was you!” Bobby snarled, not at all fazed by Hank’s cold gaze or the blood he spat out onto the table – dammit, he’d lost a tooth, too. “Stay outta my business!” Hank wiped his mouth on a napkin and advanced on his brother, who was shaking with rage or withdrawal and not in the right frame of mind to be intimidated by a look.

“It’s my business,” said Hank coldly, his jaw aching. “You’re my brother, ya dumb shit.” Bobby just sneered at that – it still didn’t suit him – so Hank grabbed him by the throat, anticipating his move to avoid it, and backed him up forcibly until he hit the diner window with a rattle. People were watching, but not as if it was anything so unusual. Which it wasn’t, here.

Bobby was coughing so Hank let go of his neck, gave him a quick smack to the head and then pinned him in place with one hand against his skinny chest.

“Look at you,” he said. He took hold of Bobby’s jacket and gave him a good shake. “Ya look like crap, you fuckin’ addict. How can you say it ain’t my business?”

“Screw you.”

“I know why you’re bein’ this way,” Hank told him, while the diners around them watched with morbid interest or got on with their dinner. Bobby’s expression turned briefly pained before it went rabid again. “But it’s gettin’ boring.”

“‘Cause I exist for your entertainment,” growled Bobby. Hank had plenty of thoughts on that subject, but before he could utter any he was interrupted by some nosy bastard looming up on his right. He spared a second to look, and there was that fucking Narco and his partner. Much to his disgust, Hank had become sort of acquainted with Hotch since Bobby started dealing; the undercover cop’s interest in his brother’s concerns had made it basically inevitable, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. And he didn’t because, unlike Jackson, Hotch couldn’t be bought.

“Everything all right here?” asked Hotch, who could do deadpan almost as well as Hank himself.

“Just a family discussion about inheritance,” Hank shot back coolly, letting up on Bobby slightly. “You know how people get.”

“I heard about your mother,” Hotch said, perfectly civil and somehow able to keep a straight face about the rollercoaster thing. “Sorry.” No, Hank didn’t like this one at all. He nodded in acknowledgement, while Bobby gave a weird kind of grimace, still breathing hard from his outburst. Hotch was watching them both, and Hank had no doubt he’d had the younger man’s condition placed at a glance; Bobby was so obviously jonesing.

“‘Scuse the commotion,” said Hank politely. “C’mon, Bobby.” He didn’t feel like engaging any more with the blonde cop, and certainly didn’t want him near his brother.

“How you doing, Bobby?” Hotch had the sympathetic tone down pat, but even Bobby wasn’t dumb enough to fall for that. Bobby just nodded at him dully and made to follow Hank out.

“Careful how you go,” piped up Hotch’s crony. “We’d hate to take you in.”

“Sure you would,” said Bobby crossly, and pushed his way past them. Hank knew his temper wouldn’t die down any time soon, and when it did it’d just be replaced by lethargy. Luckily, he was spared having to deal with either mood: as soon as they stepped outside Bobby gave him the finger, then turned on his heel and ran off toward the Square. Hank left him to his own devices, and went home to take some Tylenol and smoke a joint; Bobby packed a surprisingly painful punch. He winced. Another interesting day.

 

* * *

 

 

It was impossible to predict exactly how Bobby would react in any given situation – it was his major source of charm – but Hank had seen this one coming: his brother on the ground, almost unconscious and not caring a bit. In a filthy back street after dark. This, thought Hank, marked the point at which Bobby was probably out of control, and more invasive measures would need to be taken. Lucky for both of them Hank was a forward planner.

He gave Bobby a slap to check he was capable of some kind of response; the stupid little fucker groaned, which would have to do. Marcy stood over them, chewing gum and looking only mildly worried, but Hank decided to let her off because she’d at least had the presence of mind to call him. He hauled Bobby up, shoved him in the backseat of his Chevy and took off for the one place he could get his brother back on track with the least amount of trouble to himself.

Hank stopped on the way to the city outskirts to use a payphone, and an hour later all the arrangements had come together. That, at least, was satisfying; unlike Bobby, who was both worrying and boring as an addict in general, and particularly now. Hank got him signed in with no trouble – some of his business partners had a stake in this particular rehab clinic, as it was usually holding a few of their younger members. It would be an ideal place to go cold turkey, whatever Bobby thought.

He wasn’t thinking anything much right now, reflected Hank disapprovingly, looking over at his brother out cold on the bed. He’d come back the next day and see what Bobby had to say about his own idiotic behavior then, if he was awake and done throwing up. Hank shook his head in disgust, let the nurse shut the door behind him, and went about his own beastly business.

 

* * *

 

 

The following afternoon, Hank was cheered to see that Bobby presented quite a different picture than he had the night before: he was up and yelling as soon as Hank walked in.

“Hello to you too,” said Hank, aggravatingly calm. “Wide awake now, I see.”

“You unbearable prick! You think it’s the fuckin’ Middle Ages?!” spat Bobby. “You can’t just throw me in rehab!” Hank closed the door behind him and leaned on it comfortably.

“Watch me.”

“I’ll get out, you fuck,” Bobby warned him. “Soon as your back’s turned.” Hank watched him pace the small room, all agitation and pent-up aggression; he didn’t think Bobby would try hitting him again, but you could tell he was dying to hurt something.

“That’s all right,” said Hank, unable to repress a half-smile of satisfaction; he did like to get what he wanted, and Bobby in here was bound to be more interesting than Bobby in a heroin coma. “Ain’t my back you gotta worry about."

“What,” said Bobby, sitting down furiously on the bed, “you payin’ some goombah to babysit me?”

“Yup.” Hank wasn’t so delighted with the form of payment, in fact. As he had expected, Bruno had declined any offers of cash, and had offered one of his bodyguards’ services if Hank would accompany his boys on an out-of-state break-in job. Hank didn’t particularly like leaving the city, where he knew the ins and outs of almost every district, and he didn’t care to get wound up much closer in the Mob’s affairs. But he thought this one time it was worth it. Who knew, Bobby might even thank him one day.

“Fuck you!” Not today, though.

“You got nothin’ to complain about,” said Hank. “You get a room, you get fed, you get methadone, maybe even some chick who’ll have to sit and listen to your bullshit.” Bobby looked like he wanted to spit. “I’ll come by in a few days,” Hank promised.

“Don’t bother,” snapped Bobby, and flung himself down facing the wall. Hank gave him a snide laugh, just for the fun of pissing him off, and exited the room. Bobby’s minder was across the hall, flirting with a nurse. Hank nodded, and left them all to it.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time Hank saw Bobby, he had a black eye. He wasn’t surprised, having been alerted about his brother’s little spat with his minder as soon as he got back from a two-day vacation breaking into offices in Pennsylvania (don’t ask, that was Hank’s motto when it came to organized crime). Apparently, at around two in the morning when Hank and his so-called squad were lifting ledgers and cash, dealing with some engagingly tricky locks and hiding from security guards, Bobby had decided to trash his room. When Bruno’s guy had gone in, Bobby tried to get round him and out the door, and, when that didn’t work, punched him. Hank, whose missing tooth was taking some getting used to, didn’t blame the man for giving him a slap.

Bobby ignored him the whole visit, just sat on the bed scratching compulsively at his arm and shivering. Hank had seen withdrawal before and knew it wasn’t a pretty process. Well, Bobby would have to lump it until he was better.

 

* * *

 

 

“I think I’m goin’ mad,” Bobby announced pitifully one afternoon, after a good fifteen minutes of silence in which he’d sat vacantly picking at a thread in his blanket and Hank had leaned against the wall watching him. “My life is a goddam farce.” He got off the bed at last and began an uncertain, shuffling pace up and down its length. “None of this crap is helping, Hank. I can’t talk to anyone in Group; who’s gonna listen without fuckin’ laughing when I tell ‘em my mom died drunk at Astroland?”

“Whaddya want me to do about it?” asked Hank. “I ain’t running this program. Go tell the shrink.” He felt sorry for the kid – sort of – but being forced to have group therapy about your addict parents, grim though it sounded, was still better than being dead of an overdose yourself. He shrugged unhelpfully at his brother.

“Please,” said Bobby in a soft voice. He came to a standstill. “It’s so fuckin’ dismal in here. And I’m lonely, ain’t no-one halfway smart to talk to.”

“How’s that different from life down the Park?” Hank pointed out, but not very sharply. He did have a soft spot for Bobby when he was acting cute instead of being a smartass.

“If you were around more,” Bobby continued, looking up at him plaintively and taking a step closer like he wasn’t even aware of it. Those goddam eyes, they got Hank every time no matter how pale or thin or sick Bobby was looking. “You’re a fuckin’ jerk, but at least you’re interesting.”

“Same to you.” Hank gave him a wry smile. Bobby absently took hold of the fringe on Hank’s scarf, gave it a little tug like he was a kid again trying to get his big brother’s attention. Then his fingers drifted up slowly, brushing Hank’s coat and tangling in the soft wool knit. He gave a gentle pull and Hank stepped nearer.

“If you were around…” Hank felt an echo of the old thrill as Bobby leaned in to meet him. “Or if I was outside,” Bobby suggested in a low voice, his lashes dipping, “where you could keep an eye on me…”

Hank thought Bobby was about to try and kiss him, and honestly wouldn’t have minded, but was unable at that second to stop himself laughing.

“What?!” demanded Bobby. Hank shook his head, sniggering to himself. However appealing Bobby knew Hank found him, the _femme fatale_ route was not a good look on a skinny ghost-white junkie.

“Try again,” he suggested with a grin. “I reckon smackin’ me in the face would be more effective.” Bobby gave his scarf a vicious yank of exasperation and backed off.

“You goddam prick, I fuckin’ hate you.”

“Better luck next time,” said Hank. Bobby gave him the finger and lay down on his bed. He looked tired, and angry, and miserable; he must be pretty desperate to pull this stunt, thought Hank, as civil relations with his big brother were clearly the furthest thing from his mind.

“Fuck off and don’t come back.”

“Just a few more weeks,” Hank said encouragingly, with his broadest shit-eating grin. Bobby pushed his shaking hands through his hair and looked like he might cry.

“I’m gonna be dead by then.”

“Drama queen, Jesus.” Hank went off to talk to the doctor on duty. It was well worth visiting Bobby, even if all he got was abuse; there was really nothing else in the world as entertaining as his brother. All the same, he hoped Bobby would be clean before too long, because his proximity during that laughable honey trap attempt had been more pleasurable, more oddly comforting, than Hank cared to let on. He wanted more of it, and he wanted Bobby out of here. But not before he was a rational human again.

 

* * *

 

 

“I know you did it for me,” Bobby admitted at last, and about damn time. He didn’t sound too grateful, but it was major progress from the teenage fits he’d been pitching during his first few weeks at the clinic. “You acted like a complete shit -”

“Pot and kettle,” interjected Hank sourly.

“- But I know ya wanted what’s best for me.” Bobby was sat cross-legged on his bed – for the last time ever, Hank hoped – with his few belongings stuffed in a bag. He looked better: still pale and drawn, but less jittery and more resigned. Maybe this therapy crap was of some use. “Still,” said Bobby, with a dim gleam in his eye, “if you try and pull something like this again I’ll fucking kill ya.”

“You must be feelin’ spry,” Hank observed, cheered. “Now, you gonna come back with me or not?”

“Not,” said Bobby decisively, pausing as Eoin bustled in through the open door with an armful of sheets.

“C’mon then, my lad,” said Eoin, the walking Irish stereotype. “Off you go now; we got another one checking in in an hour.” Eoin wasn’t exactly Hank’s ideal image of a nurse even if he was a blonde, being about six-two and built like the side of a barn, but he was probably just the thing when it came to wrangling addicts. He seemed to do okay with Bobby, anyway, who clambered down off the bed and slung his bag over his shoulder.

“Bobby,” Hank repeated, “you comin’ with me?”

“Fuck no.”

“Take it easy, sport,” put in Eoin genially. “Remember what Stephanie taught you guys?”

“‘Every day is a good day to get high’?”

“Smartass,” said Hank, reaching out to smack him in the back of the head.

“Guys,” said Eoin in a reproachful tone. “You know that’s not what I meant.” Bobby sighed.

“…‘I am superior to negative thoughts and low actions.’”

“And you could both learn a lesson from that,” the big nurse told him, beginning to strip the bed. Hank raised his eyebrows at Bobby and got a short glance of complicit incredulity back, before his brother assumed a determined look and refused the connection.

“You finally called off my mafia watchdog, right?” Bobby said. Hank just looked at him. “Well,” continued Bobby, sidling toward the open door, “thanks for the offer but I’m gonna take my freedom, now you’ve so kindly given it back to me.”

“Fine.” Hank supposed it was too much to hope that Bobby would actually thank him for this all-expenses-paid vacation; but Hank might have enjoyed spending some time with his brother now he was sober. Still, as long as Bobby _was_ clean, he supposed he should be allowed to make his own choices, and Hank could look forward to regaining his primary source of entertainment and stimulation. He advanced before Bobby could disappear from the clinic altogether, and laid a hand on his arm.

“You at least want a lift?”

“Nah,” said Bobby, not shaking his grip off but not looking pleased about it either. “I’ll take the bus.”

“You gonna find another place by the Park?”

“Where else?” Hank shrugged and removed his hand. His brother would do what he would do.

“Just…don’t be a dick,” Hank advised. “Don’t start usin’ again, even if you are gonna deal. At least come to me first; I can help ya find ways to earn.”

“Don’t worry,” said Bobby, “I don’t fancy sittin’ through six weeks of Group again.” This was hardly a wholehearted acceptance of his advice, but Hank figured it was the best he was gonna get. He set his hand on the back of Bobby’s neck.

“See ya around, then.” For a second he felt Bobby relax beneath his fingers, like he wanted to lean into Hank’s touch. Then he nodded and moved away toward the front desk. Hank heard him asking for a bus timetable.

He headed home after that; at least, he thought as he drove, he wouldn’t have to haul ass out here just to see Bobby anymore. He supposed that in terms of Bobby’s welfare they could call rehab a success. Hank wondered why, in that case, he was still feeling vaguely dissatisfied. But no doubt Bobby would reveal it to him, and in an interesting and engaging way. He hoped.


	6. Chapter 6

“Hank! Hey, wait up!” Hank turned and saw Bobby jogging across the street toward him, the brisk wind blowing through the thin layer of his shirt. “What’re you, deaf?” said Bobby brightly, hand on his arm.

“How you doing?” asked Hank, giving his brother a smile; after two long months it seemed like he was finally forgiven for strong-arming him through rehab. Bobby looked good, insofar as that was possible in the Park: happy and energetic like a scruffy little terrier. Hank studied his face to gauge if he was on something. But no, he was just in a good mood. Perhaps that happy-clappy New Age bullshit he’d sat through at the clinic was actually doing something for him.

“Terrific.” Bobby waved his hand in the direction of the diner. “Come an’ have coffee? Got someone I want you to meet!”

Hank narrowed his eyes imperceptibly at that, but was too approving of Bobby’s healthy appearance to voice his lack of interest in getting to know another of his useless buddies.

“Got a minute or two,” he conceded, and followed Bobby back across the street. Hotch nodded at them from where he was sitting in his stupid little car on the corner; Bobby shouted something uncomplimentary at him with a grin, and pushed open the diner door.

 

As soon as he laid eyes on the girl, Hank knew this was something new. He dropped into the chair next to Bobby’s and gave her a smile while he ran his pale gaze over her; Bobby had had flings with a few of the chicks round here in the past – and in doing so had settled Hank’s vague suspicions that his brother might actually be queer as well as the other kind of deviant – but he had never bothered to introduce one to Hank before. Which meant she was different.

Bobby told the girl – Helen – about Hotch, the smile plain in his voice, and Hank watched her wide blue eyes. She wasn’t from round here, that was easy to see, and if she didn’t know Hotch she must be new. She looked clean, and smart, listening to Bobby with a mixture of apprehension and interest that seemed almost childish. Hank realized that in the detritus of Needle Park his brother had somehow managed to find a normal person.

“Helen’s an artist,” said Bobby, which explained how they must have met: Marco. Hank wondered if she’d been fucking him and if Bobby had poached her, and what Marco would have to say about that. He was distracted from his evaluation by Sonny and Marcy, who burst in talking their usual nonsense, and by the time he turned back Bobby was sitting there just smiling at Helen.

Hank decided right then that he didn’t like it.

“Hank’s a burglar,” Bobby told her, still on the introductions, and Hank knew his brother was showing off for her; giving her that hectic charm that had been so sadly absent this past year. He was pleased to see Bobby like this, but wasn’t too sure about the sweet blue-eyed cause. So he let his voice and expression slide back into their default state, which was affable on the surface but apparently conveyed a subtle disagreeability that most people picked up on. Helen’s gaze turned anxious, though Bobby hadn’t noticed the change; he was too busy flirting.

That charm worked as well on Hank as on anybody, and he found himself responding to Bobby’s banter about his break-in skills as if he wasn’t a complete jerk. Bobby was smiling at him, too; he seemed to be talking them both round. Wanted them to like each other. That meant Helen was important, and after, what, a few days? Dangerous stuff, thought Hank, what with Bobby just out of rehab. Did she know she might be a rebound from the drug that had been the real love of Bobby’s life for years?

Bobby grinned at both of them again, his big eyes engaged. Hank decided to be rational, to wait and see whether this girl would be something good for Bobby before he passed judgement on her. It ought to be interesting, if this turned out to be a new phase of Bobby’s development; plenty there to observe and learn. But somewhere, deep down and unexamined, Hank knew he didn’t want his brother to look that way at anyone but him.

 

* * *

 

 

“Tell me,” said Hank from his position in the window, “how come’s a girl like you ended up in the Park?” Bobby looked up from where he was measuring out packets of grass and gave him a quizzical glance. Finally, he was picking up on the permanent edge in Hank’s voice when he spoke to Helen.

“…I didn’t get on with my mother,” replied Helen at last, and from her tone of voice that was an understatement. “Different world views, I suppose. So I left home.” Well, that explained plenty. Hank gazed at the pair of them sitting on the bed, in a run-down hotel today because their regular place had developed such a major rat problem that the shitty landlord had finally called pest control. Did Bobby really think sharing a crappy backstory meant he and this girl had any kind of affinity?

“Following the American Dream, huh?” Hank said, taking a drag on his cigarette. She made an uncertain face, then laughed.

“Hasn’t turned out great for any of us, has it?”

“Depends,” Hank told her. “For some of us, where we are now is a step up.” Bobby gave him a bleak little smile. “Ain’t that right?” Hank asked him.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a real big success,” said Bobby dutifully. Hank cracked a smug grin.

“And you. Well, comparatively. Long as you’re careful.”

“Bobby’s always careful,” put in Helen in her suburban voice, jumping to her man’s defense. “He looks after me real well.”

“Hmm. And how do you look after him?”

“Shut up, Hank, quit messing with her,” said Bobby lightly. Hank subsided. Still, he wanted an answer to his question: there was no doubt that right now Bobby was happy. But beyond being a well-bred and decent-looking piece of ass, what would Helen offer Bobby if she tried to stick around? And, more importantly, what was she taking from him?

 

* * *

 

 

Hank lounged on a park bench, making desultory chat with Marco and watching Bobby play the clown for his gang of rejects. Helen was on Marco’s other side, laughing quietly; she seemed thinner than before, and less the middle-class tourist, but her blue eyes were warm as Bobby smiled back at her.

“So tell me again. Where did you two meet?” Hank asked Marco, pulling his coat tighter around himself; it was sunny but the wind was freezing and Bobby had pinched his coffee. He could sense Helen’s attention turn their way.

“Oh, man.” God, Marco annoyed him. “At this party in the Village, crazy stuff. She’d only just got to the city, didn’t know anythin’ about anythin’, so I decided to look after her. I could tell she was an artist soon as I laid eyes on her, man.” Marco patted Helen’s thigh, and she sighed.

“Oh yeah? Next da Vinci, huh?” said Hank, watching her coolly. She flushed. “What?” he asked. “Wasn’t bein’ sarcastic.”

“You don’t know nothing about Art, buddy,” Marco informed him in his rambling voice. “Girl’s got some real talent.”

“Yeah, I _bet_ she does.” Helen shifted uncomfortably at his tone, and Hank caught her sweet blue peepers throwing him a glance of real dislike.

“Just…the way she moves her brush!” rhapsodized Marco, oblivious. Hank raised his eyebrows suggestively and saw her turn even redder. Further off Bobby had stopped messing around and was watching them too. He looked puzzled. Well, Hank had his reasons, but he wasn’t about to explain them.

Hank was spending more time than usual in Bobby’s territory, which would be a damn depressing experience for anyone less able to switch off from their surroundings. And it wasn’t just to spend time with his brother, or to make it less pleasant for Bobby to spend time with Helen; it was to try and understand them.

He had devoted quite a lot of effort lately to figuring out if he simply didn’t like the girl – she was no good for Bobby and he was probably no better for her – or whether he was experiencing something else too. Like jealousy. That would be something exciting. Something entirely new.

“Why’re you acting like such a shitheel?” Bobby demanded five minutes later, having dragged Hank away from the group and across the street to the subway station while Helen was distracted with Marco. Hank supposed that maybe, _maybe_ he had been more aggravating than usual when questioning the stoner artist about her history; but there was something in him that just couldn’t let up. “Now Helen thinks you’re a jerk.”

“Aren’t I?”

“No,” said Bobby irritably. To Hank’s surprise the younger man reached out and touched his hand. “You’re doin’ it to piss me off. Why?” Hank just smiled at him. Bobby rolled his eyes and let Hank’s careful fingers brush against his own, the first time he’d touched his brother in any meaningful way since he got out of rehab. “Just ‘cause I got someone and you don’t haveta worry anymore doesn’t mean you gotta stop being nice.”

“I still worry about you plenty,” Hank reassured him with another thin smile. Which was true. Still, he was kind of gratified by Bobby’s show of affection.

“Anyone would think you were jealous,” said Bobby, and that was probably a joke but for the quizzical expression on his face. Hank calmly tangled his fingers with Bobby’s.

“Then _anyone_ doesn’t know me too well.” They stood like that for a minute, the light contact between them hidden by a stream of uninterested people coming home from the rush-hour train. Then Bobby glanced up, spotting Helen’s bright wool hat in the sea of faces.

“Just…don’t be a prick if you can possibly help it,” he told Hank more cheerfully. Hank gave him a look, but Bobby just slapped him on the back and darted off to rejoin his girl. Hank shook his head, and turned toward the station. Bobby would do what he pleased. In the meantime, Hank reserved the right to keep behaving like an asshole to the pair of them, because something about it still didn’t sit well with him. He just didn’t know what it was yet.

 

* * *

 

 

For the next month Bobby’s high-octane energy didn’t let up, and the two lovebirds continued to be sweet and considerate of each other and in general just irritating enough that Hank had taken to avoiding the whole area and accepting more freelance work to keep himself busy. It seemed Helen was starting to learn what life in Bobby’s world was actually like; but to Hank’s way of thinking his brother was sure giving her an easy ride.

Maybe it was because of this that Bobby’s bright smile started to turn sharp – which felt better to Hank, and more natural – and lately was absent for days together. Or perhaps it was just inevitable. Hank had never seen Bobby in a real relationship before, other than with himself, and that was hardly the gold standard. He hoped it meant his brother was cooling off, now that Helen had failed to offer anything beyond a fresh face. But no. The way Bobby looked at her…He still wanted her. It was far more likely, admitted Hank, to be the usual couple trouble: plain old economics.

Bobby had two mouths to feed now, and that meant higher stakes work; wasn’t like the girl could do anything useful for herself. He was back dealing junk, Hank knew it. And no way that was happening without him sampling the goods. It was only a matter of time, surely, before Bobby was using again; and it was all thanks to her.

A few weeks later and Hank found that he had been right, dammit: he had seen it in the diner only that day, the familiar and unpleasant spectacle of his brother completely fucked up. Bobby had been mute, unresponsive – not like a real human being at all. And after everything they’d gone through before to make him tolerable again. Hank didn’t look forward to a repeat of the drying-out process, and it wasn’t like Bobby’s woman was gonna be a lot of help.

After tersely explaining the difference between chipping and using – she was so innocent it spilled over into pure ignorance – Hank had asked Helen what she was planning to do about Bobby’s habit. She hadn’t thought about it, he could see that at a glance. Probably still had no idea how hard you had to scramble for money out here, and if Bobby was using at his previous rate that’d be fifty bucks a day, easy. Plus, if the Feds kept stopping the big shipments coming in – which they were getting fairly good at – the price was gonna go even higher. He inquired what she was going to do for money. Helen had given him a defiant look and said that, whatever it was, she wasn’t gonna do it with _him_.

Hank had wanted to laugh at that, but had managed to restrain himself to a particularly nasty smile. Was that really what Helen thought he was angling for? He’d wished Bobby had been awake, just to see the look on his face. But she still hadn’t given him an answer.

 

* * *

 

 

A week later, Bobby himself provided it: He and Helen were going to get married. Hank had to work very hard not to just stand there with his mouth open, as his – possibly insane – little brother outlined his plan to quit using, get some money together and tie the knot. Hank raised several sensible objections to this as soon as he could speak, because those first two steps were frankly improbable. These dimwits would be lucky if they could scrape together thirty bucks between them. But Bobby was too excited, too _manic_ , to pay attention. Hank was deeply, deeply bothered, though he didn’t show it; and Helen announcing she was gonna get a real job didn’t do much for him.

So he invited Bobby into the burglary business.

 

If Hank had hoped that drilling Bobby in the steps necessary to rob a warehouse would allow him some time alone with his brother, he was wrong. Helen was there the whole time, in his own damn apartment, and Hank realized he was feeling more territorial about all this than he’d known. Bobby felt right being in his space. She didn’t.

Luckily, Helen had to get to a café in Queens for a job interview – which was probably doomed, though he didn’t bother saying so. Hank suggested she’d make a better impression if she was early, and after exchanging a few stares of mutual suspicion with him she went off; leaving him with Bobby, who he pulled back by the collar as she went out the door.

“Don’t start,” said Bobby immediately, as Hank pushed it shut.

“You got any idea what you’re doin’?” demanded Hank, ignoring him. “Where the hell did all this come from, Bobby?”

“I love her,” said Bobby crossly, an excited sparkle in his dark eyes that seemed to Hank the product of drugs and stupidity rather than real happiness; then again, he was biased. “So I’m gonna marry her and take care of her. What’s the big problem?”

Hank didn’t know quite where to start with that, there were so many options to choose from. Not least the disagreeable jolt he’d just experienced at hearing Bobby proclaim his feelings for Helen. As far as he could remember, his brother had never said that about anyone. Not even his own family. Not even Hank. _Was_ it jealousy, then, or was he just concerned about Bobby’s wellbeing? No amount of careful thought over the past month had given Hank the answer. And that should be intriguing, but he couldn’t enjoy it. He was too angry.

Bobby gave him a look, a silent warning that told Hank he’d better not start anything. Hank wasn’t intending to bring up the now-taboo subject of what had happened between them; but maybe Bobby had seen something in his face he didn’t even know he was projecting. That was worrying, too.

“You’re gonna regret it,” he promised instead, and shrugged. “I’ll help you out if I can. Like tonight. Just…I can’t look out for you if you’re being a fuckin’ idiot, so try your best to get it right. All right?”

“Didn’t ask for your help,” muttered Bobby under his breath.

“Well, you’re gettin’ it anyway,” Hank told him. “‘Cause Christ knows where you’d be without me.” Bobby flipped him off and slammed out dramatically. Hank pursed his lips, and tried not to imagine what life would be like if, by some miracle, Bobby actually managed to go through with this.

Married! It was such a dumb idea it would be laughable, if it wasn’t his brother. But the idea of Bobby and Helen getting hitched was disastrous enough that Hank couldn’t raise even a fake smile. Sure, it had been a surprise, and generally there was nothing more gratifying than being surprised by Bobby; but this was just taking the piss.

Since their big announcement in the Park, Hank had finally figured out what bothered him about the two of them; and it wasn’t that he resented Bobby finding a woman. It was the _type_ of woman. She and Bobby, they were too similar: the kind of people who needed to be watched over, needed to be led. Bobby thrived when he was being looked after, even if he didn’t know it. But he was no good when _he_ was the one in charge of making decisions, because he invariably made the wrong ones. He sucked at responsibility. Hank had been aware of that for a long time, and he liked it, because it suited him to look out for Bobby.

But Bobby was gonna hurt himself trying to take care of someone even more naïve than he was, and no way Hank was going to be responsible for Helen too. If he wanted Bobby to be happy, he thought, he would have to do something. He just wasn’t sure what yet. In the meantime, he would have his brother make himself useful for once.

Hank nodded to no-one in particular and started setting out his kit for the night’s work ahead. He had decided, and now he felt calm again: he was going to help Bobby, all right. He was gonna make sure he never got hitched.

 

* * *

 

 

Hank had taken pains to get it through Bobby’s dumb junkie skull what he needed to do if they were going to make this break-in run smoothly together. It was a small storage warehouse in an unfrequented road and it wouldn’t be difficult, so long as Bobby could stand around, keep his eyes open and haul some boxes.

But when it came time to go, his brother was suddenly nowhere to be found, and after waiting around in a stolen truck for an hour he had to give up and put the whole thing off. Hank was pissed at that, though it was more at himself than Bobby: he should know better than to rely on a confirmed user to make himself available when it was fucking required.

When Bobby found him the next day to apologize, mercifully without Helen for once, Hank saw that he looked genuinely sick. Immediately he suspected the worst. He gave his brother a round lecture about responsibility, but clearly it wasn’t getting through. Hank scowled and continued to stride along 73rd Street so that Bobby had to rush to keep up.

“Did you fuckin’ O.D. last night?” he demanded, giving Bobby a disapproving push – quite gently, though; the idiot looked like one breath would knock him over.

“’M okay,” said Bobby; he was pronouncing his words very carefully, and Hank knew he was probably having trouble getting his mouth to work. “It was nothin’.”

“Goddam moron.” Hank gave him a disgusted look, more disapproving than he felt, but if he could guilt Bobby into behaving sensibly then he was happy to do some play-acting. “It’s set up again for tonight, but I dunno if you’re gonna make it, or if you’re gonna be any use. Are you?”

“I will,” said Bobby for the fifth time, as earnestly as he was able. Hank raised his eyebrows. “You said you needed me,” the kid reminded him solemnly, looking pathetic.

“No, I said _you_ needed the money.” Hank let one corner of his mouth curl up in a sneer, because Bobby deserved it. “If you’re gonna be getting _married_. Wasn’t that the big plan, Bobby?” he continued. “Get clean, get rich, get hitched?”

“That’s still the plan,” said Bobby, narrowing his eyes. “So let me come.”

Hank gave his brother an exaggerated sigh and agreed, though not before he’d thrown in a few more choice comments about Bobby’s intended and his relative prospects as a provider. By then Bobby was just mad enough that he might have sufficient energy to be useful. And so the job went ahead that night.


	7. Chapter 7

“I can’t believe this is happenin’ to me,” said Bobby into the phone. Hank watched him lean his forehead on the reinforced glass window, and felt bad for a minute. But only a minute. He hadn’t planned any of this; still, Bobby’s catastrophic performance at his first proper burglary, and his subsequent arrest and conviction, might just let Hank see his way clear to sorting out the mess that was his brother’s life. And stuck here in the Tombs – or Manhattan House of Correction if you wanted to be less accurate – Bobby was in no position to stop him.

“You really that surprised?” he asked, reaching out to tap the glass sharply; Bobby groaned and jerked upright. “All the bum decisions you made since you left home, ya didn’t think they’d land you in here one day?”

Bobby winced. Hank was sorry for him, sure, but he was sorrier for himself, because now he’d have to forgo his unlimited access to his brother. And that was his main source of entertainment and his one point of real human connection. Well, they’d both just have to deal with it. Hank was pretty sure which of them was gonna deal with it better.

“It was your stupid break-in that got me here!” hissed Bobby angrily. “That’s the last time I listen to your big ideas.” At least the kid had the presence of mind to keep his voice down, what with the prison officers patrolling past him every thirty seconds.

“Yeah, well, it was your dumb ass that opened the door to the cops. Good job someone cares enough about your scrawny hide to hire you a decent attorney.”

“You jerk, you don’t love me,” Bobby accused, loud enough for a passing guard to give him an off-color glance. Hank smiled indulgently; sure, he hadn’t exactly wanted this, but it was good to have Bobby off the streets and somewhat out of trouble. Even at the price of a criminal record.

“More than anyone else is likely to,” he said.

Bobby gave him a filthy look and opened his trap, no doubt to make some unrealistic comment about his so-called fiancée. Then he shut it again promptly, looking like he might throw up. He was still coming off the heroin. Hank smiled at him again, kinder this time because he did feel bad for his brother: prison was not gonna be any picnic. But no doubt it would provide an education; and at least in there he could avoid the panic that was gonna explode in the Park if the junk didn’t start coming in regular.

“Are you actually doin’ anything to get me out?” asked Bobby weakly, once he was over his bout of nausea. “It fuckin’ _sucks_ in here, they only just finished havin’ riots! We’re so cramped you practically gotta get in bed with your cellmates to even fit in the room. And that ain’t an attractive prospect, lemme tell you.”

“At least you’re already buddies with the guys you’re gonna be spooning,” pointed out Hank, kicking his mouth up in amusement. Which was true: looking down the line of windows in the visitor room, he’d seen at least three other dealers from round the Park. Hotch and his gang must have had a field day. It made Hank feel slightly better; if Bobby hadn’t got caught during the break-in he might just as easily have been scooped up with the other pushers.

“Just hurry up and get me paroled,” Bobby told him crossly. Honestly, thought Hank, the areas in which his brother was still as naïve as a baby never ceased to amaze him. He might get six months off if he behaved himself and could get out on early release; still, he was in for at least five, enough to get him clean, with any luck.

“I’m payin’ for your lawyer, aren’t I?” Hank replied. “We’ll do the best we can.” Bobby looked only slightly consoled.

“You gotta talk to Helen, too.” Hank looked at him levelly; he’d guessed that was coming. “I know you get some kinda kick out of actin’ like a total prick around her,” Bobby continued, all earnest now, “but she’s on her own thanks to you and she’s gonna need some help.” This wasn’t much of a convincing argument as far as Hank was concerned, because it was also the main reason for his dislike. He wasn’t a fucking Samaritan; that was Bobby’s job, not that he was any good at it.

“Can’t she trot back to Marco?” he suggested. Bobby’s white face tightened angrily. Hank made a mental note for later to think about why, when it came to Helen, he could never resist twisting the knife. For now he just said, “He knocked her up once, didn’t he? They gotta be pretty close.”

“Screw you!” spat Bobby, exploding. Well, Hank had known he would. “Don’t bother coming back, ‘cause I ain’t talkin’ to you again!” Hank saw him slam the receiver down and jump unsteadily to his feet – the stupid little brat was wobbly as a kitten, either from withdrawal or because some other dealer had been kicking his ass in there. Bobby stalked off, to the best of his ability, until he was stopped by a guard and made to exit more humbly.

Hank replaced his own receiver and got up to walk home from The Tombs. As he walked, he pondered what it was about him and women; more to the point, about him and women who formed legitimate connections to Bobby. Okay, so that was only two – Carm didn’t count – but when it came to his mother and to Helen, even though they were almost totally different, Hank simply did not want to rein his mouth in. He knew it made his relationship with Bobby worse, the kid was so fucking sensitive and defensive of them. But he couldn’t stop himself.

Hank jogged across Centre Street. He decided the best policy would be to avoid Helen, wait for Bobby to calm down and try not to antagonize either of them, because Bobby was gonna need support during his stint in the can. Then again, that was probably easier said than done.

 

* * *

 

 

A month later Hank was back in Needle Park. Bobby had relented pretty quick, like Hank had known he would; and his brother had been so cute the last time he visited – part of that was some pretty transparent manipulation, but part of it was his genuine sweetness – that Hank had agreed to keep an occasional eye on Helen. That was for Bobby’s peace of mind, but Hank was never averse to seeing what she was up to.

He leaned against a busted parking meter with the paper and a cup of bitter diner coffee; everyone passed along this street some time or other, if they were one of the regular Park losers. Marcy and some guy who looked like a pimp, Hank hadn’t bothered to remember his name, waved half-assedly at him. Hank curled his lip; there was no point interacting with these people when Bobby wasn’t around.

Ten minutes later he looked up the street and saw Helen getting out of Hotch’s lame VW; it was impossible to miss the girl, her silhouette as shrinking and gentle as Bobby’s was defensive and wired. Well. That was interesting. He abandoned his coffee on the parking meter – it was immediately picked up by some bum – and strolled in Helen’s direction.

“So, you ballin’ that cop?” asked Hank, swinging into step with her and giving her a flat, evaluating glance. Helen looked guilty, but he didn’t think it was that she’d actually been fucking Hotch. Someone else, maybe, or at least thinking about it. “How you doin’ on your own?”

“Stop pretending you care what I do,” said Helen in a harassed tone. “Just make that stupid lawyer get Bobby’s parole sorted!” She had the twitchy look Hank saw dozens of times a day in the Park. She was a junkie too, then; even with Bobby out of the picture. He hadn’t known that.

“All right,” Hank said affably, easily keeping pace as she sped up. “Then tell me, you got to resort to hookin’ for Hotch now my brother’s not around to score for ya? Or are you just a rat?” Helen shook her head, not looking at him.

“You really aren’t like him at all, are you?”

“Not much,” said Hank easily. “For one thing, I don’t have his temper.”

“What temper? Bobby’s the nicest guy I know.” Helen rounded on him. “Will you quit following me?!”

“And there you were going to marry him,” commented Hank unpleasantly. He smiled, and saw her flinch. “Ya don’t know the first thing about him.” Oh, she was getting mad now, in that well-raised quiet way she had. “You oughta stop visiting him,” Hank advised. “What good d’you do him, huh?”

“I could say the same to you!” That was funny. “I don’t think you’re even trying to help Bobby, and he says so too.”

“Bobby’s my brother,” Hank explained, as if to an idiot, which she was. “So that don’t matter. I’m gonna be around long after you’re escaped back to suburbia or dead from an O.D.”

Helen made an exasperated sound, spun on her heel and slipped her skinny frame through the line of parked cars to put the width of the street between herself and Hank. Without even waiting she stepped out, straight into the path of Hotch’s oncoming VW. Hank, who was faster than he looked, jumped forward and grabbed her by the collar, yanking her back between an El Camino and a battered Ford Falcon. Helen squeaked, then went silent as Hotch’s shitheap screeched to a stop.

“What’re you, fuckin’ blind?” exclaimed Hank, a sentiment echoed by the detective as he jumped out of the driver’s side. The short black guy in the back – standard user, soon to be a snitch, no doubt – scrambled out and legged it. Hotch was doing well today. Hank gave Helen a shake for good measure.

“You okay?” demanded Hotch. She nodded breathlessly. Hank was surprised to see what looked like genuine concern in the blonde cop’s face. Maybe they were fucking, after all. Hotch gave him a look of grudging thanks, then turned his gaze back on Helen. “You need to talk, or see a doctor or whatever, call me.” She just stared at him, and eventually he sighed and gave up.

“…Why did you do that?” asked Helen quietly, turning her head to look up at Hank. He let her go; she was so light it had been no effort at all to drag her out of harm’s way. “You didn’t have to.” Hank gave her a smile, just because he knew she didn’t like it.

“‘Cause I ain’t a monster. And ‘cause Bobby _is_ my brother. And right now it’d hurt him if anythin’ happened to you.”

“Well, thanks, I guess. You crazy bastard.”

“Didn’t do it for you,” said Hank. She rolled her eyes at him and strode off, followed closely by Hotch, and Hank was left to wonder if this one good deed had completely ruined the message he’d been trying to send.

 

* * *

 

 

A month went by, and it was clear to Hank that his point hadn’t gotten through: that he would not tolerate her hanging on Bobby, visiting him and getting his hopes up that things would be better for them one day. Either that or she was just ignoring Hank. No doubt Bobby encouraged her, the romantic dipshit.

By then the heroin shortage in the city had become a full-blown panic, and Hank was glad all over again that Bobby was locked away safe. There was killing going on outside, junkies dying or going full cold turkey all over the Park and willing to do literally anything to get their hands on a hit. For what little there was, the price had gone sky high.

Hank was pretty sure that, of all the people he knew, only he was having a reasonably good time: Bobby was worried to distraction about Helen and resentful of him, as usual; the addicts were frantic; Bruno and his wise guys were pissed that their shipments weren’t getting through; and Hotch was having to mop up dead junkies and sift through all the dealers suddenly willing to rat each other out. Hank, on the other hand, sensibly gave up chipping and held onto his stash for emergencies.

He kept a wary eye on Helen – Bobby wouldn’t shut up asking how she was really doing – and she was having it as bad as anybody. So Hank knew it was only a matter of time before she caved in and came to him for help; she was a junkie, same as the rest of them now. And right on cue, she came.

Helen would hardly expect him to give her drug money out of the kindness of his heart; and, indeed, she didn’t even ask for it. She knew Hank well enough for that. So she proposed a trade, just like he’d thought. And as she only had one thing to offer, Hank gave her the junk and fucked her.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy it much – they disliked each other far too intensely, and she wasn’t likely to bother making it interesting – but in the end it wasn’t that bad. She was basically absent, probably dreaming of her next fix; still, a body was a body, albeit a bony one; and turned out it didn’t matter too much that it belonged to the person he currently resented most in the world. Hank wondered, in the moment, if she ever thought about his brother when she was with her other johns; and without meaning to, that made him think of Bobby too.

And, somehow, it did the trick. Christ, it was fucked up, thought Hank later. Not so much that he was banging his brother’s girl, but that the idea of it being Bobby instead made him hard. Well, who was he kidding? He’d known what he wanted for years. But only being in Helen’s bed had made it so glaringly physical.

Still, Hank was an adaptable guy. He resigned himself to his fucking sick attitude, and went on visiting his brother like nothing had happened. And so did Helen. They did it a few more times, when she was absolutely desperate for her drugs, and every time made him more certain that she could never be any good for Bobby after this. Hank didn’t particularly disapprove of her hooking – it was admirably proactive, for her at least – just for having the stones to do it behind Bobby’s back. And if she’d screw Bobby over in this, how else might she betray him down the line?

Nevertheless, it was perfect. This was gonna be the perfect bombshell to drop, once his brother was out of prison. Because Bobby wouldn’t be free, not really free, until he was rid of Helen.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s the last time,” Hank heard Helen say wearily as she pulled her sweater back on. “Less than a week ‘til his release date now.” Like he needed her to tell him; he’d been feeling the anticipation for days, and far more than he’d thought he would. Hank sat on the edge of the old bureau and smoked while Helen got dressed; she was much too skinny, he thought critically, but she wasn’t bad looking. Plenty to get Bobby hooked on her again as soon as he was out.

“I know it,” he acknowledged. Then, equally laconic, “Are you gonna tell him? ‘Cause I don’t mind doin’ it. Just say the word.” Helen turned quickly to look at him, and for once she was showing a bit of shock, those blue eyes opening wide like when he’d first met her. Lately she’d just been flat; using would do that to you, and the whoring couldn’t help, either. Seeing that naïve expression reminded Hank of exactly why he disliked her.

“You want to _tell_ Bobby?” she said in a low voice.

“Sure, don’t he deserve the truth?” She pursed her lips and stood up, all long gangly legs like some baby animal. Hank didn’t like that vulnerability, found it irritating in anyone but his brother.

“God, you’re cold,” she managed, avoiding his stare. Hank gave her a smile and moved toward the door. “You don’t care about hurting Bobby at all?”

“Says the girl fuckin’ around behind his back.”

“Oh, just…go home,” Helen said miserably.

“Think on it,” Hank advised, as he let himself out of the shitty little room. “‘Cause I ain’t gonna screw my brother over.” Not this one time, anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

“What’re you going to do,” inquired Hotch, “when Bobby gets out?”

Hank peered under the raised wheel arch of his old Impala, and to his annoyance spotted a sharp, tangled piece of metal jammed in the space; no wonder he’d got a flat. And to compound that annoyance here was the NYPD’s finest, who for some reason was off his own beat and lurking around in Queens. Hank got up and gave the tire a kick.

“Whaddya mean?” he asked distractedly, popping the trunk to get at the spare. Lucky he always cleared out his house-breaking gear during the day. Hotch leaned his ass against the jacked-up car and watched him. “What’re you even doin’ here? Go harass some dopeheads.”

Quite apart from the fact that Hotch was a pain in the butt in and of himself, Hank wasn’t keen to be seen on the street with him here in Bruno’s neck of the woods. Hanging around with drug cops didn’t look great when you were freelancing for the biggest organized pushers in New York.

“I mean, what’re you going to do about him?” Hotch sounded solemn, but then the fucker always did. Hank glanced up at him from the sidewalk, wondering how counter-productive it would be if he told the cop to piss off. “I know you’ve got your eye on him, Hank,” continued Hotch. Hank sniffed. “He’s your brother. You got him clean before, and now he’s clean again. You gonna let him go right back to dealing?”

Hank raised an eyebrow at him neutrally; did the detective really think he’d make any acknowledgement that could drop Bobby in it later? Or maybe, maybe he was actually concerned about Bobby. That would be…peculiar: Hotch might look young and naïve with all that blonde L.A. hair and his fresh college boy’s face, but from what Hank could tell the cop was as world-weary and cynical as a Bowery pensioner.

“You know he still has plans for Helen,” Hotch was saying now. “He gets out and starts it all up again, she’s gonna get dragged in even deeper.” Hank had to snort at that.

“Bobby can’t even plan for himself,” he informed Hotch disinterestedly. But trust this asshole to paint his brother as some scheming corrupter of innocent women; Hank had always thought Hotch had a major boner for Bobby’s girl, and this blindness about her wasn’t doing anything to change his mind. Then again, Bobby was blind for her too.

“Yeah, you would say that, wouldn’t you.” The cop drummed his fingers against the paintwork, apparently just to see if he could be any more exasperating.

“Shut up and hand me the tire iron.”

“She’ll end up ratting on him,” Hotch opined as he reached in the back automatically and passed him the tool. Hank grunted and got to changing the tire. “She’s already hooking behind his back, it’s just one more step. She won’t have a choice, not if she wants to save her own neck. And I’ll see that she chooses to, ‘cause she doesn’t belong here.” Finally, thought Hank, they agreed on something.

“So what, exactly, are you tryin’ to say?” Hank demanded as he prised the flat off and hauled the new one into place. He wished Hotch would get lost: it didn’t do his own street cred any good to be seen with a Narco; and besides, the fact that he was now well-acquainted enough with Hotch to be having a civilized conversation with him was weirding Hank out.

“All right, if you’re going to play dumb. When Bobby gets out, you need to step in. Show a little fraternal authority and keep him off the junk. And away from Helen, if you want what’s good for him. Or I’ll have her put him right back where he came from.”

“I ain’t a damn cop,” said Hank flatly. “I don’t tell my brother what he can and can’t do.” Well, he did; Bobby just didn’t listen, but it sounded better this way. “Now, unless you’re plannin’ to arrest me for illegal parking, will you please go away? I actually got stuff to do.”

Hotch gave him a disappointed look that was clearly deliberate, but sauntered over to his crap-heap, got in and drove away. Hank shook his head and returned to his mechanics. He distrusted Hotch, disliked him on principle and, if it hadn’t been for Bobby, would never have got within shouting distance of the bastard. So he had no intention of telling the detective that, in this sole instance, he was planning to do exactly what Hotch wanted.

 

* * *

 

 

Hank didn’t know if Helen would actually tell Bobby what she had been up to while he was in the slammer, or how he would react when she did. He would be more than happy to inform Bobby himself, if it would push him in the direction of cutting ties with her. He didn’t expect Bobby to be happy with him, either; but he was blood and Helen wasn’t.

He was spared the trouble of breaking the news; as soon as Bobby came to find him in the bar near his place, Hank knew that he knew.

“…Why did you do that?” asked Bobby dully, joining him at the counter. He took a long pull off the beer Hank bought him, not making eye contact. He sounded completely empty.

“She offered,” Hank told him, leaning his elbow on the bar and turning to watch Bobby. He didn’t pretend not to know what Bobby was talking about. His brother’s hand tightened on the bottle, but he kept quiet. “She was usin’; it was during the panic and she needed her fix, so I made her a deal.” Bobby clenched his jaw and repeated himself.

“Why did you do it?”

“I ain’t the only guy who did,” Hank said reasonably, even though he knew the other men Helen had balled were probably a moot point by now.

“But why did _you_?” A hint of the betrayal Bobby must be feeling had crept into his subdued voice, but he kept his cool well enough; jail must have schooled him to a bit of stoicism. God, but it was good to see him out. “You’re loaded enough, you coulda just helped her out. I know you two don’t get on – ‘cause you’re a bastard, Hank, though that ain’t news – but if not for her sake you coulda done it for _mine_.” Hank laughed shortly.

“If it _was_ for your sake I’d have given her whatever she wanted,” he said. Bobby stared fixedly at the bar, lashes hiding his eyes. “If it was a question of your lawyer, or parole, or makin’ sure you had a place to stay when you got out. But she’s a fuckin’ junkie, Bobby, and I wasn’t gonna indulge her habit for nothin’.”

“You didn’t have to indulge her at all!”

“Figured I’d check,” said Hank, in an exasperatingly cool tone. “How loyal she was to ya.” Now he could see Bobby’s eyes widen, his knuckles turning white; probably wanted to bottle him, and no wonder. As a general rule Hank didn’t like to see his brother hurt, but some things were necessary evils.

“How loyal _she_ was?” managed Bobby venomously, keeping his voice low. “You fuckin’ hypocrite! Who said me and Helen should never get married, huh? Whose shitty burglary got me locked up? Who _fucked my girl_ and ruined the only goddam good thing I had going for me out here?!”

“Is it ruined?” put in Hank. “You and her?” Bobby stopped mid-rant and buried his face in his hands like all the energy had been sucked out of him.

“…I don’t know,” he muttered. Hank gave him a sour look. What the hell would it take? “I’m just…so fuckin’ tired, Hank, and you ask me that…”

“Well, who’re you really mad at?” Hank asked. “Her or me?”

“Both of you, ya sick bastard. But you’re the worst.”

“Why?” pressed Hank.

“‘Cause you’re the one who’s got his shit together,” said Bobby, voice muffled by his hands. “Helen…she couldn’t help it. You could.”

“You’re jealous.”

“I ain’t jealous, I been stabbed in the goddam back!” Bobby let his hands fall heavily on the bar, and at last turned to look at his brother, his face pale and exhausted and huge eyes snapping with hurt. Hank lowered his voice to an intimate murmur that the bartender wouldn’t overhear, and continued as if Bobby hadn’t spoken.

“But tell me, Bobby: are you jealous of me for havin’ her?” Bobby’s fingers curled reflexively into a fist, so Hank laid a hand on his arm. Felt him shudder. “…Or of _her_ for having me?”

“…Fuck you,” whispered Bobby after a long pause. He jerked his wrist out of Hank’s grasp. “I don’t wanna listen to your crap anymore. Stay outta my way, you twisted son of a bitch, you hear me?” Hank raised his eyebrows goadingly.

“You ain’t answered my question.”

“Here’s your answer,” said Bobby viciously, and he smacked Hank across the face, jumped off his bar stool and strode out.

Hank shrugged at the barman and righted Bobby’s spilled beer bottle. He ran his tongue over his teeth experimentally: no more missing, so that was okay. He wasn’t surprised Bobby had hit him, he’d been so obviously asking for it. Would his brother do what Hank wanted now, and take all that anger home to Helen? You could never be sure, with him. And that was why Hank put himself through this shit: after all this time, there was no-one like Bobby.

 

* * *

 

 

“I _was_ jealous,” Bobby confessed. His voice was just audible above the wind and the sound of someone’s transistor radio scratching out Three Dog Night at high volume. Hank exhaled slowly, so as not to let his satisfaction show.

“Yeah?” he said, looking at Bobby almost kindly. It must have taken a lot for his brother to keep a civil tongue in his head and ask him to meet out here. The Park was almost good-looking tonight, late with the moon up as it was. Bobby had drawn him away from its usual inhabitants and into the line of trees. And after a week, Hank was going to get his answer.

“…Yes,” said Bobby softly, arms folded defensively and his back against a London Plane.

“And?”

“…And I was jealous of her.” Bobby looked right up at him, and there it was again: guilt. Hank let out a sigh and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah, well, so was I.”

Bobby laughed at that; it was a peculiar sound, thought Hank, somewhere between gratification and incredulity and misery.

“Christ, you say it so easily!”

“Well,” said Hank, “you knew it anyway, surely.”

“I do now,” replied Bobby, his voice a marked contrast to Hank’s level tone. He stood silently for a minute. “So…what do we do?” For once in his life he was gazing at Hank like his brother had all the answers. That was a pretty pleasant sensation.

“Whaddya want to do?”

“…I wanna take you up on your offer.” Bobby sounded resigned. “I wanna come stay with you.” Hank paused, locking on to his eyes in the warm dark.

“You sure about that?"

“Yeah,” said Bobby decisively, dragging his hands through his hair. “I give up. You want me around, you want me all to yourself; and I can’t handle what you’re like when I’m not. So yeah; I’ll come.”

“ _Good_ ,” said Hank, feeling for a moment some savage burst of delight that was surely not healthy. He got it under control, but not before he had taken a step closer.

“But one thing,” Bobby told him quickly, hand up in front of him. He sighed, and set his jaw in the stubborn way Hank found so exasperating yet had somehow grown fond of. “You gotta promise me what you promised before: If I live with you…it can’t be like that. You get me?”

“Sure.” Right then Hank didn’t care how his brother came to him, just that he did. That he acknowledged Hank knew what was best for him. Bobby was watching him warily, anticipation plain on his face.

“‘Cause there’s some things that just ain’t right,” the younger man explained firmly. “Even for fuck-ups like us. So you have to promise me it’ll be like before, when we were kids. Only a nicer apartment.” He waited nervously.

“And minus New York’s worst parents.” Hank let himself smile properly. He thought he saw Bobby’s eyes soften, though it could just be the shadows moving. Bobby had to be the only person in the world who liked Hank’s smile. “You don’t gotta beg me to promise, Bobby,” he said. “I’ll tell ya as often as you like: I only want what’s good for you. I won’t start anythin’ you don’t ask for.”

“…All right,” agreed Bobby, moving carefully away from the tree. “I’ll come.”

“Fine,” said Hank briskly, pitching his voice to reassure Bobby because he didn’t want him backing out now. “You gotta go pick up your stuff?”

“Nah, this is everything.” Hank raised his eyebrows at the frayed messenger bag slung over Bobby’s shoulder.

“Ain’t that a sad state of affairs.” But by then Bobby had reached him, reached out for him, and the next thing Hank knew his brother’s arms were around him. He stood still for a minute, gauging the embrace: Bobby felt like a kid, nothing dangerous at all in his closeness. Someone had changed the radio station, and Hank could hear the static tones of The Hollies blowing across the grass. He grinned to himself wryly.

“Besides,” said Bobby in a muffled voice, “I don’t wanna go back there. I’m done with it now, you bastard. I’m done with her.”

Hank didn’t know if it would be as easy as all that, but he appreciated Bobby saying it. He set one hand to the back of the younger man’s head and slowly pulled him closer; this might be the last intimate contact he would get for some time. Hank suspected that Bobby would set pretty strict boundaries on himself if they did manage to live together, and there were bound to be fights. But it would be fun.

“It’s okay,” he told Bobby, thumb brushing the back of his neck soothingly. Bobby held on tighter. Hank enjoyed the hug for a long moment, while the darkness hid them both.


	8. PART 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow, the third part turned out enormous! On reflection, probably only 20% of this fic occurs during the movie timeline. Ah well.

Hank didn’t see Helen around anymore. It raised no curiosity in him, though he couldn’t say the same about Bobby. His brother tried to hide it, but Hank knew he still wondered about her. Sometimes missing her made Bobby angry, and those days he remembered exactly how far Hank had gone to try and separate them. Then there were fights, all right: pretty one-sided, with Bobby snarling and frustrated and the older man cool as ice. It was easy for Hank to win; harder to stop himself wanting to console Bobby after. But Bobby was always careful to keep some distance between them, even now he was living on Hank’s couch.

“You wanna see her again, don’t ya,” Hank said eventually.

“No I don’t,” shot back Bobby, looking startled, like he thought Hank had been too stupid to notice. “I just…ya know what, just shut up.”

“Well go, if you wanna. This ain’t a prison,” Hank told him, knowing that it would make Bobby feel guilty and back down. His brother gave him the puppy-dog eyes; Hank had trouble resisting that look, and it was pretty effective at ending arguments even when Hank knew full well Bobby was doing it on purpose. Hank smiled to himself, because you couldn’t doubt they were related: both sitting here, pretending to be nice while trying to screw each other over.

“It’s not that I wanna talk to her. Just check if she’s okay.” Bobby frowned. “Anyway, nobody’s seen her for ages. Maybe she went home.” Hank twitched one corner of his mouth up.

“Bet if you asked Hotch he could tell ya,” he said snidely. “He was always watchin’ her. Taking her for drives.” Bobby gave him a look. “ _Such_ a professional.”

“Drop it,” suggested Bobby. “I’m here, ain’t I? I chose you, ain’t you proud of yourself?”

“Pretty much.” Bobby let out a short, unamused laugh; Hank wanted to reach out and touch him, but that would be dumb, with his brother still so jittery.

“Then the least you can do is not be a dick about it. I’m over Helen; stop bringin’ it up.”

“All right,” agreed Hank. But privately, he thought Bobby’s inconvenient guilty streak wouldn’t let things lie so easily.

 

* * *

 

 

Hank was right, again. And, again, he ought to have predicted how Bobby would deal with the guilt. When Hank got home one evening from casing some middle-class apartments up by Fifth Avenue, he found his brother cooking, sleeve pushed up and ready to get some easy relief from his problems. That meant Bobby had been back to the Park to score. Hank found himself annoyed, but it was less about Bobby being dumb and more about him being _obvious_ ; he’d gotten used to the pleasure of Bobby surprising him, and to have him run right back to the needle was, frankly, tiresome.

On the other hand, aside from the guilt complex, Bobby was probably bored out of his fucking skull. Stuck in the apartment all day, only an overbearing big brother to talk to, and nothing closer to excitement than jerking off to Elizabeth Montgomery in front of the TV would get you. It dawned on Hank that maybe Bobby _needed_ the Park and its assorted idiots; after all, it was the only life he knew.

But if Bobby was going to use again, it was gonna be on Hank’s terms.

“Whaddya think you’re doing, you moron?” Hank pushed Bobby back against the couch, relieving him forcibly of his paraphernalia and the little packet of junk. The younger man hung onto it tenaciously, but Hank was a lot sturdier and just shook him until he gave it up.

“Give it back!” said Bobby urgently, attempting to get to his feet. Hank pushed him back into his sitting position on the rug, not too gently.

“You really feelin’ that bad about her?” Hank asked. He tried to stay cool, though he wasn’t feeling too detached right now. How fucking dumb it was, to be jealous of Helen still – if that’s what this was. Hank didn’t seem to have a lot of time lately for introspection; turned out that just living with Bobby provided plenty enough mental stimulation. Bobby might be bored as hell, but Hank could really get used to having him around.

“No,” Bobby said tightly.

“Then what?” said Hank, waving the packet. Bobby got that set, angry expression. “Is livin’ with me that unbearable?”

“…No.” Bobby pulled his knees up to his chest. “And yeah.” He sighed, and gave the junk a yearning look before turning back resentfully to Hank. “It’s not about Helen. Honestly. It’s just hard.”

“Ya mean you’re bored stupid?” interrogated Hank.

“Well yeah,” said Bobby. “I mean, I got nothin’ to do except watch the box, and that’s shit. Ain’t like _you’re_ boring,” he continued quickly.

“Thanks a lot.” He heard Bobby say quietly, almost to himself,

“Problem is sometimes you ain’t boring _enough_.”

“Meaning?” Hank saw his brother give the floor a shifty look, saw his ears flush pink, and was immediately on the alert.

“…I see how you look at me sometimes,” Bobby admitted, and goddammit if he didn’t sound guilty about that too.

“Like you’re a dumbass who can’t explain himself?”

“…Like it excites you,” said Bobby, in a reticent tone, “having me here.”

Well, thought Hank, the kid wasn’t wrong. Living with him, fighting with him, it was _fun_. But he knew what Bobby had meant, and it wasn’t anything so innocuous. He meant those times when Hank walked into the living room to find Bobby just waking up, mumbling nonsense and looking absolutely appealing; when he was mad enough during their fights to spit, reminding Hank of the first time he had felt the sizzle of connection between them; and when Bobby apologized after, sweet as fucking pie so that Hank couldn’t help but remember what his brother used to want from him. Those times, it would be so easy to offer it.

“And using’s gonna help you how?” he demanded, giving Bobby his flat, pale stare. Bobby shifted uneasily.

“I just…wanna forget where I am,” he confessed in a low voice. “What we are.”

“Fine,” said Hank. “But you can do it without this shit.” He closed his fist on the heroin – not top grade, he knew what Bobby was like – and strode out of the room. A moment later Bobby heard the sound of the toilet flushing, and when Hank got back he had turned white. No inappropriate feelings now, observed Hank, amused; Bobby was purely angry.

“I can’t believe you just did that, you son of a bitch! _Fuck_!” Bobby looked like he wanted to hit him.

“Shut up,” Hank told him, and went to use the phone.

 

Thirty minutes after leaving the house he was back. Bobby was sat on the floor, quietly fuming, but Hank ignored that because it was fairly impressive he was still here at all. Of course, he was probably broke by now.

“Hey.” Hank extracted another packet from the hidden pocket in his coat. Bobby’s eyes snapped up hungrily. Once upon a time it was Hank who’d been the recipient of that longing stare, and he kind of missed it. But he couldn’t deny that, of the two of them, heroin was the more soothing option.

“You wanna chip with me?” said Hank, holding the packet out of Bobby’s reach. The younger man nodded mutely. “Well, ya can. But no more buyin’ shit down the Park. When you want it you come ask me; at least you can trust that mine ain’t cut with ten different kinds of crap.”

“I want to,” Bobby said in a low voice. Hank supposed he deserved a little hit, for giving him that intriguing moment of tension earlier, if nothing else.

“Say please,” instructed Hank, just to be a dick because he could.

“ _Please_ ,” said Bobby immediately.

“…But just chippin’, ya hear me?” said Hank five minutes later, his eyes on the syringe. “You gotta learn to control yourself, Bobby, I won’t have you gettin’ hooked again.”

“I know.” Bobby sighed, though his gaze didn’t move from the spoon. “I don’t want that either.”

“Else it’s back in rehab you go.”

Hank made Bobby let him do the injecting – this was Bobby’s first encounter with junk for a long time, going by the faded scars on his arms, so he kept it small. It was the first time he had touched the younger man since the night Bobby gave in and came with him, and even this minimal contact felt pleasant.

He settled his brother comfortably on the tan sofa, then sat down beside him and proceeded to dose himself. This was good shit, it really was. After some time – Hank didn’t know how long, the minutes seemed to stretch and contract like elastic when he was chipping, and he was floating too high to care anyway – he felt a slow, luxurious prickle against his cheek. He didn’t really want to open his eyes, the darkness behind them was too spectacular. In any case, he recognized each imprint of Bobby’s gentle fingers like they belonged to his own body.

“…Hey,” managed Hank slowly, and that seemed to be enough. He could almost hear Bobby smile. Making a supreme effort, Hank stretched out and tucked one arm around his back. The last thing he remembered was a feeling of total relaxation and the tingle of Bobby’s breath against his neck.

 

* * *

 

 

It seemed that after this episode Bobby grew a bit more relaxed around Hank, and a little more settled in the apartment. Best of all, arguments about Helen tapered off ‘til Hank was down to around one a week. He put this down to the way he was indulging Bobby: giving him the proverbial life of leisure, letting him lie around or see his dumb friends as and when he wanted. And helping him get high occasionally, Hank didn’t forget that. So for now, Bobby was in a good mood.

Hank was in no doubt that Bobby was cuter when he was being spoiled; and he enjoyed being the one to spoil him. Sometimes, though, before Hank went about his business at night he would watch Bobby mutely gawping at The Doris Day Show or some crap, and wonder: was this really what was best for his brother? Or was it just Hank’s own pleasure at keeping him that was skewing his clear thinking? Like Bobby was some exotic pet.

Yeah, Hank thought about it sometimes. But it was difficult to actually _worry_ about Bobby these days; not when pampering him was so pleasant, especially when he wanted them to get high together. Those days Bobby let him close, too flattened with sluggish euphoria for any of that messed-up desire that kept him so wary of his older brother. Hank quite liked the feeling too, when they were both chipping: slumped next to Bobby on the couch, limbs heavy and floating at the same time. Bobby’s pale fingers on his arm or his face. Almost, he could see why his brother chased the sensation; but it most likely wasn’t healthy.

For Bobby, always slower on the uptake than Hank, the realization took a little longer. And until the younger man came to it of his own accord, Hank continued to indulge himself by allowing Bobby to creep closer.

 

“How did it get like this?” came Bobby’s sleepy voice. Hank took a drag on the joint, let the blue smoke curl out and looped his arm tighter across Bobby’s chest.

“What?” he inquired lazily, from his prone position on the sofa.

“This,” said Bobby with his eyes closed, in the slow, mellow tones of the pleasantly stoned. His fingers brushed lightly along Hank’s bare arm. “The way we turned out…”

“Thought you didn’t ever wanna talk about that.”

“Well, no, but…” Bobby yawned widely. “When I’m lookin’ at us like this, it hits me. Y’know. How fuckin’ _strange_ it is.”

“Weird as hell,” Hank agreed. He didn’t like to think too much when smoking dope – it was about the only time his brain let up – but Bobby was given to introspective bollocks when he was high. Hank didn’t mind, because it was also the only time Bobby would get anywhere near him; he was normally far too nervy of what might happen. He made a note to himself to take care: he didn’t want drugs to become an excuse he used to get physically close. Now _that_ was creepy.

“I been thinkin’ about it a bit.” Bobby raised a hand and Hank passed him the spliff. “On and off, since…y’know, since it started.” Hank did know, he remembered it vividly: the bite of Bobby’s teeth and the fleeting touch of his tongue. It was all wound up with the unwelcome revelation of their mother’s addiction, but it was still one of the most exciting memories of his life. “I must’ve been the one,” said Bobby, fiddling with Hank’s wristwatch. “The one who began it, I mean."

“No doubt.” Hank grunted with amusement as Bobby elbowed him in the side. “Why?”

“Couldn’t say. I dunno…screwed-up childhood?”

“That’s just an excuse.”

“I mean the way you were,” continued Bobby pensively. “Some ways you weren’t like normal brothers are s’posed to be.”

“You always say that,” muttered Hank, though he wasn’t offended. He stroked his hand encouragingly along Bobby’s ribs; still too bony.

“Maybe just ‘cos you were so much older. Felt different. But more than that,” said Bobby. “The way you stood up for me and Mom, that was the only good thing I had when I was a kid. And then you fucked off, and I missed you. Despite you bein’ an ice-cold douchebag. And that day…” Bobby paused anxiously. “Don’t think you’d been that close to me since I was little. I just wanted to hurt you, but…well, look how it turned out.” Hank smiled his half-smile and rested his chin on the top of Bobby’s head.

“You suck at explanations.”

“Well, what was it then, if you’re so smart?”

“Hormones,” said Hank. “And the fact that we’re fuckin’ freaks.” Bobby sighed. “I don’t see why you gotta worry about it so much,” Hank told him, taking a luxurious drag. “Ain’t like we’re doin’ anything wrong anyway.”

“But we could,” murmured Bobby, in danger of entering paranoid mode. “If we’re not careful.”

“I’m always careful,” Hank reassured him. “You don’t gotta be so on edge: I’m in control even if you’re not. Nothin’s gonna happen.” Bobby made a doubtful noise. Hank ran a hand over his forehead, pushing back his black hair fondly. “Remind me not to give ya this stuff again. Makes you fuckin’ gloomy.”

“Sorry,” said Bobby drowsily, relaxing under the movement of Hank’s fingers.

“Ya know what it is?” Hank said suddenly. “You’re still _bored_. Life’s gettin’ too easy for you off the street. Gotta put your brain to work before ya slip back into bad habits.”

“So what’s the solution, genius?” Hank handed his brother the joint and wrapped both arms around him comfortably. He could feel Bobby smiling.

“You’re goin’ back to school.” He laughed as Bobby started coughing.

“You _what?_ ”


	9. Chapter 9

It would have been too tricky, said Bobby, to get into City College, seeing as he’d never finished high school. So he opted for trade school instead.

“Besides,” he told Hank, after he’d spent forever on the phone with the school and bothering workmen on the street, “I gotta be practical. Might as well learn somethin’ I can get a job out of.”

“I coulda got you a high school whatever, diploma,” said Hank, who remembered how his brother had actually seemed to enjoy studying, freak that he was. He knew a guy who did pretty good forgeries, and then Bobby could have gone and learned about Civics and English Lit to his heart’s content.

“Nah, it’s okay.” Bobby gave him a fond grin. “Gonna be an electrician.”

“That’ll be handy, the bathroom light’s busted.”

“Anyway, I can do Liberal Arts classes at the Y night school if I wanna.”

Hank didn’t bother asking what Liberal Arts was, but he approved of Bobby’s revival of enthusiasm for life. It had been touch and go for a while there, with Helen and the junk and his spell in prison, and Hank was more pleased to see the hectic sparkle back in Bobby’s face than he’d imagined he could be. It was intriguing. He’d known for years now that Bobby, and only Bobby, had the potential to excite him out of his usual detached state; what he hadn’t banked on was how satisfying it felt to make him happy. He hoped this didn’t point to some hidden streak of sentimentality; that was the last thing he needed. And Bobby had enough for both of them.

“Well, if you need books and tools and stuff just tell me, and I’ll get ‘em.”

“You mean you’ll steal them,” Bobby said, still smiling. He tapped two cigarettes out of their battered pack and passed one to Hank, who accepted it with a long-suffering stare.

“You’re gettin’ to be a cheeky fucking brat, you know that?”

“You mean I’m not there yet?” said Bobby, lighting up. “I’ll haveta try harder.” He jumped up from the table before Hank could think of a comeback, and wandered into the other room. In passing, his hand rested for a moment on Hank’s shoulder, dragged lightly along it and was gone. Hank was surprised, because Bobby wouldn’t usually touch him sober. But he didn’t mind.

 

* * *

 

 

“How was school?” demanded Hank, around a mouthful of sandwich; he had to leave early that night, but had waited around as long as he could in case Bobby made it home from his final class in time. Bobby chucked his bag on the floor and dropped down in the chair opposite him.

“…Yeah,” said Bobby, unexpectedly taking Hank’s hand across the table. Hank let him, though he didn’t quite know what to make of it. “Good, I think. Not as hard as I expected.”

“Well, you ain’t dumb.”

“First time you’ve ever said _that_.” Hank smirked at him. “Wanna go down the Park?” Bobby asked brightly.

“Can’t,” said Hank. “Gotta see a guy.” He gave Bobby a thoughtful look. “But you knock yourself out.” Bobby seemed pleased at that, like it meant so much to him to get his brother’s approval for seeing his friends. Hank found himself liking it, which was curious; he made a mental note to have a good long think about why the idea of Bobby’s dependency excited him. He’d always disliked the thought of people leaning on him, had resented it in their mother his whole life. So why was this different?

 

* * *

 

 

It wasn’t going to be all that easy for Bobby, Hank knew. Sure, he was good at his books, but that didn’t mean he was gonna be a natural at practical stuff. And besides, education sucked for a whole bunch of reasons, which was why Hank had left it at the earliest possible opportunity.

First, there was the routine. Bobby had gotten used to doing whatever he pleased whenever he wanted, and getting up for class in the mornings and being polite all day long was a challenge. Still, Bobby had that charm, and could usually talk his way out of trouble when he was late. Then there were his classmates; most of the others were a few years younger than him, from nice respectable working-class homes and still living with their parents. Hank figured that put a crimp in his brother’s social life because he could hardly ask a bunch of teenagers back to the apartment, which was generally more or less full of stolen goods.

Bobby liked his Math and science classes well enough, but they didn’t get him excited, so he signed up for evening courses at the Y. Those were the ones he actually came home and talked about: Humanities, whatever that was. They mostly seemed to be discussing some book or even the movies. Hank didn’t really get how that could be considered studying, but it put a smile on Bobby’s face. As did the female students, and Hank suspected that was really the draw. But so long as Bobby didn’t try to introduce him to any of them, he didn’t mind.

One night Bobby came in looking moody; perhaps he’d had a fight with one of his cute little co-eds.

“Tough class?” inquired Hank, looking up from the case of watches he was sorting. Bobby chucked his bag down and flopped into a chair.

“Nah. Just the bunch of idiots I gotta work with.”

“Thought you liked your liberal leftie buddies.”

“I do,” said Bobby, picking up one of the watches and fiddling with it. “They’re just so naïve it’s fuckin’ painful.”

“Well, now ya know how I feel.” Hank smirked, and Bobby gave him the finger. “What brought this on?”

“Oh, we were talking about _Les Miserables_ ,” Bobby told him, with what Hank presumed was an attempt at a foreign accent.

“What’s that then?”

“A really fuckin’ long book. You were using it to prop the window open, so I ain’t read it all yet. Anyway,” continued Bobby, “the Prof starts on about one part where the main guy gets busted for stealin’, and it turned into this whole bit about the ethics of crime.”

“And?” said Hank, grinning. Finally, a subject Bobby oughta be expert on.

“And they’re all going on about how noble it is to steal to provide for your family, and they’d do the same in this guy’s place, and yada yada.”

“Yup,” agreed Hank, lighting a cigarette and offering the pack to Bobby, “I’m real noble. That’s me.”

“No you ain’t,” Bobby informed him. “‘Cause you’re a _career_ criminal, and apparently that means you’re a scumbag and a drain on the American people and you should get a real taxpaying job.” Hank chuckled to himself.

“It ain’t funny,” his brother said, evidently offended on his behalf. “I’m lucky they didn’t get round to drug dealers.”

“I’m gonna guess they’d say…grass is fine, but for junk you oughta have your hands cut off.” Bobby gave him a dirty look. “What’s the problem?” Hank asked, genuinely curious. “That’s what you get when you insist on tryin’ for a respectable education.”

“It just…made me realize,” said Bobby, blowing out smoke. “How far we are from the norm. They ain’t like me, Hank, I was dumb to think I could live in that world. They were all agreein’, even the teacher, and I was just sittin’ there so _angry_. ‘Cause half those fuckers never had to live a day in their lives; but I knew if I told them what I really think, that my own brother’s a thief and I got no problem with it at all, that I admire it…Well, they’d never understand. They’d think it was _me_ that’s fucked up.”

“Of course,” Hank said easily. “But that don’t matter. They’ll like ya well enough without understanding you; you got enough charm, god knows. If that’s what’s important to ya.”

“I think I should jack that class in. Focus on gettin’ through trade school quicker.”

“If that’s what you want.” After all this time, Bobby still cared what random assholes thought about him. And about Hank. The older man was almost touched. “But if ya joined night school to learn, not make friends with moralistic children, you should ignore them and get on with it.” Hank reached out and gave Bobby a brisk pat on the knee. “ _I_ get you, Bobby, like you do me. Ain’t that enough?” Bobby smiled at him. That was one problem dealt with.

 

* * *

 

 

It happened again a couple of months later, and Hank began to wonder if this was a part of Bobby’s character that was new to him. He hadn’t really known what Bobby was like as a high school student, his visits to the family home being pretty irregular back then. Maybe all the worrying was part and parcel of his brother’s learning process. Hank found it sort of cute. Mind you, it was an effort making him feel better; but Hank didn’t care to stop himself.

“How was your…whatever the hell it was?” Hank asked, getting home late with a van full of goods lifted from an upscale apartment with unusually incautious owners. He dumped the last box against the living-room wall and paused for breath.

“Math test,” said Bobby, making a face. “And I failed. Well, only by three points, but still.” Hank looked at him; ah, the kid was pissed at himself. Hank thought of the old Bobby – seemed like an age ago now, but for a second there his brother seemed almost the same as that ambitious, dissatisfied teenager who had thrown a textbook at him and kissed him.

“Don’t matter,” Hank told him, reaching past for his penknife and cracking the top off a beer from the fridge. “You can retake it, right?”

“Sure.” Bobby leaned back in his chair. “But then it’ll be longer before I can do the technical courses.” He scowled. “I think I fried my fuckin’ brain.” Actually, that was probably true: three years on junk wasn’t gonna get you any closer to a Nobel Prize. Hank gave him a lopsided smile and took a swig.

“You ain’t stupid, it’ll come back to ya.” With his free hand he ruffled Bobby’s hair vigorously, until the younger man made a pained noise of protest that had a laugh in it somewhere. Hank pushed his fingers luxuriously through Bobby’s untidy fringe like he was petting a housecat. “Anyway, what’s your hurry?”

“…I dunno,” said Bobby. “I just wanna start earning; ain’t like I’m bringin’ anything in sittin’ on my ass in a school workshop. And I can’t freeload off you forever.”

Oh, that was cute. Hank’s grin spread at the thought of Bobby wanting to make a financial contribution, and imagining that legitimate graft was the way to do it. Well, it was a better goal than being a dealer; and Hank wasn’t planning on making it known that he was quite happy to have his brother lean on him – that if anything he got a kick out of it.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said evenly, fingers still dragging across Bobby’s scalp. Bobby leaned his head back sleepily and closed his eyes. “You always did like your learnin’, ya weirdo. So let it take as long as it takes, enjoy it.” Bobby made an approving sound.

“You can be so sweet to me,” he said, in a slow, contented voice. Then he opened his eyes and peered up at Hank. “So why the other nine-tenths of the time are you such an impossible prick?” Hank snorted through his nose, gave Bobby’s hair a sharp tug.

“‘Cause most of the time you deserve it.” Bobby let out a few curse-words of complaint. “Anyway, your math is off, no wonder you failed: I’m nice to ya far less than that.”

“You are nice,” Bobby informed him. “Much more than you think.” He smiled at his brother, and Hank was grateful that Bobby’s real smile was so unlike his own; the kid must have inherited it from wherever he got those big peepers. These past couple of years he’d barely seen it. Well, Bobby could tank as many exams as he wanted if it meant Hank got to see it again.

Christ, he was getting sappy.

“Gonna make a sandwich,” said Bobby, apparently forgetting that he was moping and bouncing out of his seat. “Want one?”

Was this what domesticity looked like? mused Hank, nodding and strolling off to change out of his work gear. Growing up with their parents had warped his image of home life, but if this was what it was supposed to be, he sort of liked it. Hank sat down with his beer, flicked on the television, and sighed comfortably. There was only one thing Bobby could do for him to make it even better; but they were past all that now. Now it was time to try enjoying life.

 

* * *

 

 

Summer came round, and things started evening out. Hank was pretty content with life in general; he hadn’t felt that way since he first left home, so they had to be doing something right. Bobby was busy and reasonably happy, varying his schooling with occasional trips to the Park to remind himself what real life was like. Hank was quietly making money and thinking about moving them to a bigger place.

So, inevitably, God had to look down, see them attempting to be normal, and throw a wrench in the works. And what a wrench it was.

Bobby had been acting pissy all evening. Hank couldn’t figure out why, and seeing as it took the form of being morose instead of argumentative, he’d ignored him. His brother had been out after school; maybe he was having another stab at making some proper friends, thought Hank, skeptically. But more likely he’d had a fight with one of the losers down the Park.

Hank got bored and went to bed while Bobby was still watching The Tonight Show. A couple hours later he was woken again by the sound of the younger man being fidgety around the apartment. He heard the fridge door slam, then the bathroom door, and wondered if Bobby was trying to get his attention or if he was just being a brat.

“Oi,” shouted Hank eventually, rolling over and giving up on trying to convince himself back to sleep. “You wanna keep the damn noise down?” Silence. “Thank you. Now for fuck’s sake go to bed.”

“…Hey,” came Bobby’s voice after a minute. “Can I talk to ya for a sec?”

“Jesus. If you must.” But Hank was really awake now, alerted to something in Bobby’s tone that he couldn’t place. He sat up in bed. “Well?”

“…Can you come out here?” Bobby never went in Hank’s bedroom. Hank obligingly heaved himself up and grumbled his way into the living room, tossing the blanket over his t-shirt and sweatpants. Bobby was perched on the arm of the couch, so Hank took a seat at the other end and waited.

“Yeah?” he said eventually, when nothing more was forthcoming. Bobby frowned, skinny arms wrapped round his knees.

“Saw Sammy today,” he said.

“That must’ve been delightful.” Sammy was good for when you wanted to get stoned in a pinch, but he was hardly fascinating company. “So what?”

“He said there’d been someone lookin’ around for us. Back at the old apartment.” Okay, now Hank was listening.

“A cop?” Bobby shook his head.

“He wasn’t sure to start with.” That was no big surprise: Sammy’s brain was usually so frazzled it was a good day if he could recognize his own face in the mirror. “It’s been so long since anyone saw him,” continued Bobby.

“Saw who?” said Hank, looking at his brother properly. Bobby’s features had gone into that tight set; he looked back at Hank with his big dark eyes, and the older man knew something was really wrong.

“…He said he thought it was Pop.” Hank sat very still, and tried to figure out if he might have heard wrong. “I didn’t want to worry ya,” said Bobby quietly.

“I ain’t worried,” replied Hank automatically. He didn’t know what he was. “You sure Sammy didn’t get it wrong?” Bobby pursed his lips and shuffled off the arm of the sofa to scrunch himself up on the seat.

“Said he wasn’t sure at first, ‘cause the guy looked so different. But then he asked about us; and about Mom.”

“Well,” said Hank. And then couldn’t think of anything else. Bobby inched closer and they sat there cross-legged in the dark, knees touching, in silence. Just like the old days.


	10. Chapter 10

When Bobby came into his local while Hank was enjoying a pre-work drink, the older man immediately knew something had happened. Bobby didn’t like this bar as a rule, either because it was just far enough above scummy to make him feel self-conscious or because it reminded him of fighting about Helen, and he avoided it unless he really had to speak to Hank.

“I saw him,” said Bobby, as soon as he was close enough for Hank to hear. No need to ask who: the kid looked seriously perturbed. Hank hadn’t seen that expression since Bobby was eleven.

“What, you went back to Mom’s place? Why?”

“No,” said Bobby urgently. “He found me. At the Square.”

“He musta got it out of Sammy.” Hank should have known their father would gravitate to the shittiest, most disreputable area he could find; after all, he’d made them grow up in one.

“Yeah, well, I almost crapped myself when he turned up in front of me.” Bobby folded his arms; defensive. “Wasn’t sure I’d know him, it’s been so long. But I did, straightaway. And he knew me.”

“So what did you do?”

“Told him to fuck off,” said Bobby, with the distinctive jut to his jaw that meant he was upset.

“Good,” said Hank in satisfaction. “Did he?”

“Sort of. He just went over the diner. But I could still _feel_ him around, ya know what I mean? You remember?”

“Not really.”

“So I left instead,” finished Bobby, still looking unnerved.

“You just gotta keep it up, Bobby,” Hank told him. “C’mere.” Bobby came and slumped onto the bar stool next to him. “Ignore him,” the older man advised. “Stay out of his way. And if you can’t, keep tellin’ him to get lost. He’ll figure it out, that you’re not a kid anymore, he can’t pull the same shit he used to. And if he can’t get anything out of ya, he’ll disappear again.”

“You reckon?” said Bobby hopefully.

“Sure.” Hank reached out to touch him lightly on the shoulder. “Ya think he’s hangin’ around ‘cause he wants to see _us_?” Bobby looked doubtful. “Nah. He wants to squeeze you for what he can get. And if it don’t work, he’ll quit.”

“And what about you? If he tries it on with you?”

“Then he’ll soon learn better,” said Hank, who had no intention of giving their father the time of day, never mind anything more valuable. But he was concerned for Bobby, who history had proved to be a soft touch, despite his temper. “Best if you avoid the Park for a bit, though. Ya must have met some people at school by now; go hang out with them if you must be social.”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t worry about him, Bobby,” Hank said. “You’re a grown man now, even if you are a runt. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Bobby just looked at him without comment. Then he ordered a triple Jack Daniels.

 

* * *

 

 

“…I talked to Pop yesterday,” Bobby confessed the following week. It was Saturday afternoon and Hank had been up just long enough to start functioning. Bobby was cooking him eggs, in his own precarious way; for someone so deft with a spoon and lighter, he was lethal with breakfast.

The proximity of Bobby’s shirt-tail to the gas meant Hank couldn’t jump up and give him a shaking, which was maybe what the dimwit had banked on. Instead, Hank set his coffee down carefully and fixed him with a cool stare. What had happened to his brother’s unwillingness to reconnect with Frank? Bobby looked unhappy, and Hank wondered why he was telling him. But Hank found out everything sooner or later.

“Where?”

“Down the Square again,” said Bobby, making a grab for the toast and waving away the smoke. He slapped an egg on top of one slice and took a bite as he haphazardly served up the rest. He didn’t look Hank in the eye.

“Why?” demanded Hank, feeling that he was being very patient given the impossibility of his relatives. Bobby crunched down another unenthusiastic mouthful and peered at the ceiling.

“…He was being nice,” he said eventually. “He was with Sonny and them, they were all gettin’ along.” Christ, what did Bobby think? mused Hank. That ten years away had changed their father into a completely different person?

“What did he want?” he asked bluntly.

“Said he wants to settle down here. He was in business with some friends in Albany or Boston or someplace, but it went under. So he came home, he said, and then Sammy told him about Mom. Said he wants to get to know us again.”

“What did he _really_ want?” Hank knew that was total crap, but it would be even worse if it was true.

“Money,” said Bobby shortly. Hank curled his lip; what a revelation.

“Ya gave him some, didn’t you.” Bobby pulled a face, putting his toast down on Hank’s plate. “You dipshit.”

“He’s very persuasive.”

“What,” said Hank, feeling himself tense up even further at the image that immediately popped into his head. “Did he try and threaten you?”

“No!” denied Bobby, pulling his black brows down as if the idea was ridiculous. Hank wondered if his brother was somehow suffering from selective amnesia, if he had suddenly lost all those fond childhood memories of abuse. “He just…explained stuff, and he needed it, so I lent him some cash.”

“You mean he conned you.”

“Shut up.”

“That’s what happened, ain’t it?” said Hank, aiming a sneer in his direction, because really, how could this be his brother? He’d thought he had taught Bobby some healthy cynicism since Helen and his prison stretch. “Open your wallet, do a reality check.” Bobby looked unhappy.

“Okay, so he’s manipulative. That ain’t a surprise.” He eyed Hank warily. “Y’know, when you get up close to Pop and talk to him as an adult…he’s so like you.”

“That’s not true,” said Hank coldly. He kinda felt like smacking Bobby for that, but restrained himself easily. And there was the difference. Whatever Bobby saw on his face, it was enough to make him look a bit guilty.

“I just meant he’s pretty convincing. He can get you to do stuff ya didn’t think you wanted to do.” Except, thought Hank, almost genuinely offended, when _he_ manipulated Bobby into doing shit it was – mostly, somewhat – for his own good. And his persuasion didn’t come with threats behind it.

“What’s wrong with you, Bobby? Ya knew from the start he wouldn’t have good intentions, and already he’s hittin’ you up for a payout. Why’re you goin’ easy on him?” Hank couldn’t fathom it. He knew Bobby wasn’t stupid, despite what he said to his face. So why was he letting their father get anywhere near him, never mind listening to his bullshit? Bobby made a helpless gesture.

“He says…He says he has it tough. Finds it hard to cope, so he does stupid shit. I get that, I do it too; Christ, you know that better than anyone. Y’know, he had a bad time in the War, and it’s still messin’ with him, and he keeps gettin’ kicked out of his rentals. Screamin’ nightmares and all that.”

“Pop wasn’t in the War!” said Hank incredulously, unable to listen politely under such a tirade of crap. “He was a draft-dodger!”

“He was.” Bobby frowned. “He’s got a scar, I saw it when we were kids.” Hank wanted to laugh.

“How’re you still so naïve?” he exclaimed instead. “He coulda got that anywhere, enough people must want to slice him up, the weasly cunt. Pop didn’t even leave the damn city ‘til about 1950,” he continued. Bobby opened his mouth, but Hank ploughed on. “I _remember_ , Bobby, Mom used to tell me about it. And I remember enough to know she was scared. He sure wasn’t at Pearl Harbor or goddam Iwojima; he never moved off the fuckin’ street.”

“You sayin’ he was giving me a line?” said Bobby furiously – furious at their father, Hank hoped.

“Course he was, dumbass.” He reached out to smack Bobby’s arm, but his brother drew back to avoid contact. Ah, great, now the kid was upset, which was never what Hank wanted; but it was for his own benefit.

“Still, though,” Bobby began with that hint of guilt that was entirely foreign to Hank’s makeup. “He’s our _dad_ , even if he is screwed up…”

“What about it?”

“I mean, I gotta help him out if I can. If he needs it.” Hank gave a snort of derision. “You helped _me_ ,” Bobby pointed out pleadingly, “and I was as fucked up and ungrateful as you think he is!”

“That’s different,” said Hank. “You’re my brother, you’ve always been there. Not him. So he knocked up Mom and here we are, so what? He dropped any claim he had on you when he walked out. Nah, long before that: when he hurt you.” Bobby was looking miserable and mutinous at the same time; Hank knew how bad he felt about their mother even now, knew what drive was pushing Bobby toward their surviving parent; he just could not understand it.

“He’s family,” argued Bobby.

“No,” replied Hank, “he isn’t. You got no obligation at all.” He could feel himself starting to get mad, despite knowing better. He tried to detach from it like he’d always been able to, but apparently these were the two people on Earth who could drive him crazy, and the combination of them both was irresistible. “You don’t belong to him, Bobby,” he said warningly. He reached out and laid a firm hand on his brother’s forearm, and this time Bobby let him, big eyes flickering warily over his face.

“No?” said Bobby, his voice cautious as Hank’s grip tightened.

“ _No_.” Hank didn’t bother to add anything to his statement: Bobby knew; he could feel it in the resurgence of that old tension between them, the stillness of Bobby’s arm beneath his fingers.

“All right,” murmured Bobby, his gaze so avid and apprehensive it was almost like a physical touch on Hank’s skin. “…I hear ya.”

Hank let him go abruptly, then got up and walked right out without finishing breakfast or even pausing for his keys. It was definitely time to end the discussion. Not because Hank thought Bobby would take his advice and drop their father so soon after they’d gotten reacquainted; he knew his sentimental little brother too well, and so did Frank, the sneaky fuck.

No, Hank had to go because for almost the first time in his life he felt himself losing control. And that couldn’t happen. He’d made Bobby a promise when he took him in, and it had been so easy to keep because _control_ was what Hank was good at. But now he’d felt it, if he hadn’t been sure before with Helen he was sure now what it was: possessiveness and jealousy. When he’d touched Bobby’s arm he’d had an intense desire to grab him and drag him over and show him just who he belonged to. It was totally irrational, and unexpected and _exciting_ ; but right now it was the worse impulse he could have.

Hank stopped for a red light and exhaled slowly. He was coming to the realization that his priorities had changed from when this all began: seeing what Bobby would do, and how it would make Hank feel, had slipped from the top of the list. Now in first place was the wish – no, dammit, it was a _need_ – to keep Bobby safe. Close. And it was making him want to act stupid. Hank hunched his shoulders against the drizzle, and wondered what was happening to him.

 

* * *

 

 

Bobby started skipping school. The first Hank heard of it was when they got a call from the student office. Luckily Bobby wasn’t home to intercept it, and Hank was persuasive enough – being the good big brother – that the secretary soon spilled the beans. Hank was pissed, but gave her a line about flu and hung up. If Bobby was cutting classes, classes he appeared to actually like, there was only one place he would go. And Hank had no doubt who was to blame.

The next day he took a trip to the Park. He’d managed to go some weeks now without visiting; he only had to be there occasionally for business since Bobby had cleaned up his act, and that was the way Hank liked it. He took his old seat in the diner across from Sherman Square, drank his crappy coffee and watched people come and go. The same people with the same mean, depressing lives. Hank was all for Bobby being autonomous, within reason; but he did not want his brother to wind up like them again.

“Oh,” said Marco, as he wandered in, “been a while, man!” Hank gave him a nod; the man was still goddam irritating, but part of it was probably just Hank’s resentment that Marco had been the one to introduce Bobby and Helen.

“You seen anyone new round here lately?” Hank asked, because if Marco was gonna talk to him he might as well be useful. “Older guy, probably with my brother.”

“Dunno,” said Marco helpfully. He turned to order a hotdog. “Ain’t been around, man, I been in Toronto.” Hank blinked. Foreign travel was not a big part of the Needle Park lifestyle.

“What you wanna freeze your ass off up there for?”

“Had a show,” Marco told him proudly. “Might have one here soon.” Oh yeah, the art. Maybe Marco was actually going to be one of the exceptions: one of the guys who got out. And Bobby was gonna be another, dammit. But first Hank would have to find him and somehow get his ass back to school.

“Never mind,” he told Marco absently, and went back to his coffee and reconnaissance. An hour later he returned from the bathroom and spotted Bobby’s unmistakable figure across the street on the traffic island, sitting right where he always used to. And there next to him, amid the gaggle of Park morons, was their father. It had to be him. Hank couldn’t see too many details at this distance, but enough to tell that it was an older man, bigger than Bobby – well, but so was everyone – wearing a grayish mackintosh with the collar pulled up. But Hank didn’t need details; he knew.

As he watched, he saw Bobby in conversation with the guy, who was leaning in familiarly. Bobby looked okay, but that didn’t mean anything from this distance. Hank supposed he should go get a better look, but something inside him really didn’t want to. Maybe that was just sensible: if he got up close to Frank, who knew what kind of trouble he’d start?

Bobby wandered off to talk to one of the tall black guys who had their own clique on the near side of the Square. Hank could see him clearer now; Bobby looked pale, and edgy, just like before. And, like he used to, here he was slipping some dealer money. Hank observed the transaction with something like anger, but also with a lack of surprise. Bobby returned to his seat and quietly passed a square object to their father, who stuck it in his pocket.

That was enough for Hank to get a pretty good picture of what had been going on: Frank was still around, was luring or guilt-tripping Bobby away from school, and now he had his son scoring for him too. But how far had this gone, and what was Bobby doing to pay for the drugs? Hank set down his empty coffee cup with rather too much force, and made himself go home before he did something stupid.

But he would have to do _something_.

 

* * *

 

 

Two weeks later and Bobby was still cutting school, still seeing their father. At this rate he was gonna get kicked out and would have to start all over again. Worse than that, though, Hank thought Bobby was using too; whether to keep Frank company or to try and forget about him, it didn’t matter. If Hank didn’t say something, their father was going to ruin him.

“Bobby,” started Hank, as his brother walked out of the bathroom in jeans and another ratty t-shirt, toweling his hair off vigorously.

“Huh?”

“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” Bobby peered at him from under the towel. Hank nodded to his arm, where new needle marks showed up plain on his bare skin. Being a chilly little son of a bitch Bobby usually wore long sleeves even in summer; but Hank had known they’d be there. “You’re scoring for Pop, aren’t you.” Hank leaned against the table and watched his brother look guilty. “After all the shit you went through to get clean.”

“I -”

“I know you are, dipshit, I saw ya.”

“Shut up,” said Bobby intelligently, chucking the towel across the room.

“Don’t tell me you’re still fallin’ for his bullshit. You know he doesn’t care about you, he doesn’t love you, he don’t even want to be your friend.”

“You keep saying that,” snapped Bobby tiredly, “and I keep tellin’ you _I know_.”

“Then he’s forcin’ you to score for him.” Hank wouldn’t be surprised either way. “He hurting you, Bobby?” Bobby sighed, his posture slumping slightly. He opened his mouth, then shut it again with a frustrated gesture.

“…I dunno what to say to you, Hank,” he managed at last. “I dunno what’s gonna make you feel better.”

“Don’t you worry about how I feel,” said Hank, curling his lip. “Worry about yourself!”

“I know what I’m doing,” Bobby told him, his lips thinning at whatever expression Hank was making now. “Ain’t like I don’t use my brain at all. I just wanted to help Pop out. Thought he’d feel better if I could get him the stuff he wanted. Thought he might…leave me alone for a bit.”

“How often’s he makin’ you score for him?” Hank asked, kindly glossing over the stupidity of this statement. Really, when Bobby chose to be optimistic he picked the strangest of targets. And Hank didn’t believe for a minute that Frank wasn’t pulling his strings.

“Not so often,” Bobby mumbled. “Every few days?” That was pretty damn often; too much for just chipping. “But that’s not the only reason he wants me around! I know what you think; and you’re right. Mostly. But he’s still my dad.”

“So what is it?”

“Says he likes the company. That’s why I skip class. Just sometimes. We talk.”

“He’s got plenty of company,” said Hank disparagingly. “Every loser in the Park is there for him to mess with, and you gotta offer yourself up like dinner when he’s got a whole fuckin’ buffet. He only wants you ‘cause he’s a goddam addict, and he knows you’ll score for him. And pay.” Bobby looked hurt, which was bullshit because he must already know that what Hank said was true.

“He’s just chipping,” Bobby insisted, turning to avoid Hank’s eye and looking at the fascinating scenery out the living-room window.

“Like you are?”

“I use way less than him,” said Bobby hurriedly, obviously not fancying another spell in rehab. Then he thought about what he’d said, realized he’d dropped their father in it, and scowled. What a dumbass; Hank would have smiled if the situation hadn’t been so dangerous. He stepped up behind the younger man and tried to sound non-confrontational.

“He’s hooked,” said Hank. “You know it, and so do I.” He set his hand on Bobby’s shoulder, felt his brother tense up. “You gotta get out. Don’t start dealin’ again to pay for his habit.”

“It’s not that bad,” Bobby countered. Totally in denial.

“Don’t lie to yourself; this was always gonna happen.” Hank squeezed his shoulder. “He’s got an addictive personality, like every other fucker in our family. Like you. That’s why I’m gettin’ at you, see?” Bobby shook his head bitterly and stared out of the window.

“What about you?” demanded the younger man. “Why’re you the only exception? What makes you so fuckin’ special?”

“Who can say?” Hank didn’t have an answer to that, because at this second – and it wasn’t the first time lately – he didn’t feel like he was a great example of restraint. He had that territorial urge again, that had first surfaced with Helen and was even worse with their father, and it was disturbingly difficult to beat it back. “But you keep enablin’ Pop,” he said sensibly, “and he’ll drag you down too.”

The thought was intolerable. Hank wrapped his arm across Bobby’s collarbones and drew him back, buried his face in Bobby’s neck; he smelled like soap and misery. His brother sighed and leaned against him, though Hank could almost hear him grit his teeth.

“I wanna say no,” came Bobby’s faint voice, and Hank didn’t know anymore if he was talking about their father or him. “But it ain’t easy like it is for you.”

“‘Cause I’m so cold-blooded,” said Hank softly, his mouth against Bobby’s skin. He felt Bobby’s hand creep up to clasp his forearm for a moment. That caused a brief shock of light-headedness, as Hank imagined what it would be like if Bobby were to actually give in right now. But fuck it, Bobby had his morals and had made it clear any amount of times that he wouldn’t cave; and now here was Hank acting as manipulative as their father. No. He was _not_ going to be like Frank.

Hank breathed in once, then let go of Bobby and stepped away to lean up against the window. He folded his arms to create a barrier between himself and his brother. Bobby gave him a grateful look.

“I’ll try and stay away,” promised Bobby. “I’ll quit cuttin’ school.”

“Ya want me to speak to him?” Hank had no desire whatsoever to talk with their father, and didn’t know what would happen if he tried. But if it would get the prick away from Bobby, he was willing to make as many threats as it took. Bobby looked aghast.

“You kiddin’? Like I’d let you get involved after you…”

He meant their mother; Hank didn’t need him to finish the sentence. He supposed Bobby had a point, though for himself he had no regrets. All right. Time to reset. Time to show some restraint.

 

* * *

 

 

Restraint was one thing, thought Hank as he strode along West 72nd; allowing his stupid little brother to get caught dealing was another. For years now Bobby had managed to somehow keep himself out of Hotch’s clutches – the burglary thing didn’t count – and Hank felt that on principle he had to get involved, now that he knew whose damn fault this was.

Jackson had tipped him off an hour ago, running into him in the quiet street behind Hank’s local bar.

“Your kid brother, the one I caught robbing the 7-11 truck that time,” he said casually. Hank stopped. “He dealing again?”

“Why?”

“They’re doin’ multiple busts round the Square tonight,” Jackson informed him. “Heard it from my pal; some editor ran another piece complaining about the state of our fine city, and Needle Park got name-dropped. So the Narcos are hitting all the hotspots to keep the Press off their backs.”

“Thanks,” said Hank coolly, and slipped him a bill. Jackson went on his way, the most useful cop in New York. Because Bobby wasn’t home, which meant he was gonna be right in the middle of it; and if Frank was making him deal tonight, odds were his brother would be waking up in a holding cell.

It took a couple of strolls around the area before Hank spotted Bobby, walking quietly toward a casual group standing on the corner of Broadway. Maybe the idiot was aiming to deal, and maybe he wasn’t, but Hank wanted him off the street because his observant gaze had picked up the undercover Narcos across the road. Sure, they looked like a couple of perverts waiting for a hooker, but Hank could smell a cop a mile away.

He caught up with Bobby when he was twenty yards from the group. Bobby had been so intent on them that he didn’t notice until his brother was right beside him. Then he jumped, and straight away looked shifty.

“What the hell’re you doin’ here? You scared the shit outta me.”

“Bobby,” said Hank decisively, “you’re comin’ home right now.” Bobby gestured to the guys on the corner.

“But I’m s’posed to -”

“Now.” Hank grabbed the back of his thin jacket and marched him away from the other dealers toward the subway. They were halfway down the steps when Bobby dug his heels in and stopped.

“I gotta go do this real quick,” he said stubbornly. When Hank didn’t let go he gave him a push, and in that contact the older man felt Bobby was for some reason close to panic. “I have to do this deal tonight,” Bobby insisted.

“Why?” Hank gave him a shake. “I told ya to quit this; you’re gettin’ careless, and you’re gonna get caught. You didn’t see those Narcos on the other corner?”

“I know what you told me,” said Bobby, leaning against the stair-rail and pushing a hand through his hair neurotically. “But Pop needs the money. Doesn’t want it,” he continued, as Hank opened his mouth, “he _needs_ it.”

“Bullshit.” Hank let go but stood close; he wouldn’t have Bobby run straight back into a drugs bust. “But you wanna think about it like that? Okay. Then what about what I need?”

“Huh?”

“Let’s pretend this ain’t about you ruinin’ your life. Let’s say it’s about sides.” Bobby gave him a puzzled look. “You can take his side and supply all his selfish fuckin’ _needs_. Or you can take mine. And I need a brother who ain’t a dealer or a junkie or a jailbird. I need my brother to be okay. You can’t please us both, Bobby; you gotta make a choice.”

Bobby was staring at Hank like he didn’t know whether to laugh or smack him or burst out crying. Christ, he was still a baby, even after everything. Hank didn’t know how he did it, or why it was still appealing, when Bobby was so undeniably frustrating that half the time Hank wanted to slap him.

“Like it’s that easy,” said Bobby breathlessly, his voice echoing in the empty stairwell.

“I just don’t see why it’s so damn hard to do as I say.” Hank grabbed Bobby by the chin and pressed his lips impulsively to his brother’s pale forehead, although that wasn’t how he really wanted to kiss him. Bobby made a soft, ambivalent sound. “Who you love more, huh? Me or him?”

“You, of course,” said Bobby resentfully, taking Hank’s hand in his own and moving it to cup his cheek; he leaned into Hank’s touch, thoughtless of anyone who might be passing, and the older man found himself smiling. “You manipulative shit.”

“No I ain’t.” Hank let Bobby go reluctantly, because maybe touching him right now was kinda like emotional blackmail. Still, it was gratifying, hearing Bobby say that. It seemed so simple for his brother to talk about feelings and all that feminine crap; Hank thought it was quite enviable. But this was getting off-point.

“So why do you keep doin’ what he wants?” he asked. “Why won’t ya do what _I_ want?”

“You think it’s that fuckin’ simple?” Bobby looked vexed. “It’s…god, it’s hard to explain this stuff to you, you don’t think like other people.”

“Well try already.”

“…It’s not that I think Pop’s a good person,” explained Bobby, scrubbing one hand through his hair as though this was hurting his brain. “Or that he wants what’s good for me. And it ain’t that I love him…Well, but maybe I do. Not like you,” he said quickly. He gave Hank a pointed look. “But still, there’s somethin’ there and I can’t just switch it off ‘cause you tell me I should. He’s the only parent we got left.”

“And what else?” prompted Hank. He didn’t think Bobby had given any kind of reason yet that would explain his inability to stop seeing their father.

“What else? I’m fuckin’ scared of him,” said Bobby unhappily. “And it ain’t so easy to run. I remember bein’ little: it always got way, way worse if you tried to hide. You don’t remember that?”

“You ain’t a kid anymore, Bobby. You don’t gotta hide, you just gotta ignore him when he comes beggin’ for handouts. ‘Cause he’s gonna wreck your life, and I won’t have that.”

“…I knew you wouldn’t understand,” Bobby said miserably. “It’s all too messy.” Hank was torn between wanting to touch him in some way to make him feel better, and jolting some sense into him with a smack upside the head. Sensibly, he didn’t do either.

“There’s only one way I’m gonna get it,” he said instead, “and that’s to go talk to the fucker myself.”

“You’ll make him worse.” Bobby covered his mouth with his fingers hopelessly. “Please don’t do this.” He looked up at Hank and sighed. “But when you do, ‘cause I know you will…just remember how it used to be with you and Mom; and go careful.” He must have read something unpleasant in Hank’s face, because he swallowed and said, “For me?”

“Everything I do is for you,” Hank informed him. Well, they both knew that wasn’t quite true, but close enough. This, though. This would be the hardest thing he had done for Bobby yet.


	11. Chapter 11

It wasn’t hard to track down their father, now that he had wormed his way into the life of Needle Park. Knowing what attracted Frank – free entertainment, stimulants, a place to sit on his lazy ass and vulnerable idiots to target – gave Hank a likely radius of a few square blocks. So one night, when Bobby was home and sober and actually doing some work for once, Hank took himself off to look. He started at the diner, then tried the Sherman Square triangle.

“Frankie?” said one of his brother’s dumbass ex-friends, high on something that made him fidgety, or maybe it was that he was just uncomfortable at the thought of Frank. Neither would surprise Hank. “Why don’tcha ask Bobby? It was him first brought the dude around.”

“Fuck lotta help you are.”

“Saw him up west side of the Park,” called Marcy, pausing in the middle of an argument with another woman about babysitting her kid. “Near the museum. I mean, it was a couple hours ago, but it’s pretty warm out and the guy don’t move much.” Hank nodded to her, left the traffic island quietly and strolled up to the Park.

There were the usual clusters of losers up there once you got away from the Museums; but when Hank finally spotted their father the man was alone. It had been a long time since he’d seen him face to face, but something about his shape was enough to pick him out. Hank took an even breath and wandered toward him. Now that he was here, he didn’t actually want to do this; every selfish, sensible instinct told him to avoid their father like the plague. But this wasn’t about him, it was about Bobby, and sensible had nothing to do with it.

Once Hank got up close he realized how much the years had altered the both of them, and how much of an upper hand this should give him. Even though he was standing and their father was lolling on the base of the von Humboldt statue, it was obvious Hank was bigger; and if Frank was actually a user, Hank oughta be stronger, too. From what he remembered, Frank had had the same black hair as Bobby; but now, in the half-dark, it was mostly a yellowish gray. The man’s face looked skinny, and furtive.

No doubt about it, their father had changed. And yet Hank experienced a violent jolt of hatred – and more than that, something more – now that they were finally face to face. He had never felt anything this sharply for anyone who wasn’t Bobby. Hank didn’t let it show, of course. But Frank, after a moment’s uncertain peering to figure out who it was, cracked a faint smile like he knew exactly what was going through his son’s head.

“Well. If it ain’t Junior. Long time no speak.” Frank settled more comfortably on his makeshift seat. “Wondered when you’d come around.” Hank felt himself stiffen, with dislike and with the realization that their father’s lopsided smile was the spit of his own. He found the thought incredibly distasteful.

“Figured I should come see what you’re doin’ back,” said Hank laconically, lighting up a cigarette. Through his eyelashes he saw Frank watching his hands, though he didn’t know whether it was for signs of weakness or for any expensive jewelry he might be able to pinch if Hank got close enough.

“Didn’t little Bobby tell you?” asked the older man, his milky eyes narrowing at the look on Hank’s face. “I’m here to reconnect. To catch up with home folk.”

“Like Mom?” Hank exhaled a stream of smoke, wondering where that righteous comment had come from; it wasn’t like he had been their mother’s champion in any way, and here he was making snide remarks on her behalf. He’d have to watch himself: it would be too easy to get sidetracked by the past with Frank in front of him.

“Like your brother,” said Frank, completely ignoring his jibe. Well, that saved Hank the trouble of circling round the topic.

“Yeah,” Hank replied, “let’s talk about Bobby.” He pointed his cigarette at their father. “I didn’t search the whole damn Park for the pleasure of seeing you, old man. I’m here to tell ya to lay off him.” Frank didn’t say anything, just made a slight movement, raising one hand to scratch his leg; and Hank was disturbed to find the gesture made him flinch inwardly and increased his hostility by at least half.

“I dunno why you came back,” he told the seated figure, “but it’d be easier on everyone if you just got lost again. An’ easier on you if ya go of your own accord.” Their father kept quiet. “You need money, just ask,” Hank continued coldly.

“Pretty harsh,” commented Frank, taking out a crumpled tobacco pack of his own and lighting a roll-up. He had an ugly, dry cough, and Hank thought how convenient it would be if he were to just keel over right here. “Seein’ as this was my patch before you were so much as a tadpole.”

“Or don’t leave.” Hank flicked his dog-end into the shadows surrounding the statue. “Ain’t like I care what you do.”

“Obviously ya do.”

“Just keep your distance from Bobby. He’s gonna make somethin’ of his life and he don’t need you for that.” Hank thought he’d done a remarkably good job up to now of staying calm and cool and on top of the situation; but their father’s nonchalance was needling him. That, plus his bastard face. God, Hank hated that fucking face. “You ignore me, Pop, an’ I promise you’ll regret it.” Frank leaned his forearms on his knees and sat forward.

“You tryin’ to put the frights on me, son?” Christ, and he hated that word, too. Leaning forward brought the man’s face further into the light; Hank found it hard to look away from it – a reflex from the past, that was: having to read it for its moods. And the way he’d aged, it was like looking at a creepy fairground mask of the man he’d known.

“Figure it out,” said Hank, harshly. He couldn’t really remember how smart their father had been, or how subtle; but if necessary he was ready to name-drop every mobster between here and New Jersey if it would spook the man into leaving them alone.

“Your brother’s sure better behaved than you,” Frank told him, and Hank felt his fists clench involuntarily. He stuck them in his pockets. “Bobby was always a sweet kid. He’s just helpin’ out his old man.” He gave Hank a look. “It’s good to have a quality relationship with my boy, after all these years. Hope nothin’ happens to make it go south.” He shrugged. “Reckon that wouldn’t be too good for Bobby.”

It was that line that did it. As soon as Frank closed his mouth Hank understood that Bobby was right: he shouldn’t have come here, shouldn’t have tried to threaten their father, and most of all shouldn’t have spoken his brother’s name. And all it took was a sentence.

Until that moment Hank had forgotten – how the _hell_ had he forgotten? – just how their father used to make him feel. Over the years it had become…distant: how it was never the physical stuff that had scared Hank right through to his bones; how it wasn’t the knocks that chilled him so bad he couldn’t move. It was the things Frank _said_ , and the way he said them; a couple of words was enough. The feeling must have faded in his teenage years, after Hank started learning to detach from the world around him, and had been shoved away to the back of his mind once their father had walked out.

The only memories Hank had been left with were physical: watching Bobby and their mother get hurt when he was too small to do anything about it; and, finally, growing enough size and enough balls to stand up to the man and at least block his path. But these days, thanks to Bobby, Hank’s famous detachment was on the fritz; and now he was hearing Frank’s voice, that seemingly innocuous comment about his brother, and he _remembered_.

Hank felt himself shudder, a fear response he had buried somewhere deep because he hadn’t needed it for years. And suddenly, Bobby’s problem with their father didn’t seem quite so pathetic. Hank gritted his teeth: being afraid was one thing, but it didn’t mean he had to act it. He’d made himself come out here for a reason.

“Bobby’s gonna be fine,” he said, doing his best impression of a cold and intimidating bastard. Which he was, dammit. “I been makin’ sure of that my whole life.”

“Bobby’s a good kid,” agreed Frank.

“No he isn’t,” said Hank, loathing their father a little more every time he said Bobby’s name. “He just ain’t a total scumbag like you.” Frank gave him one of his own smirks.

“And you.”

“Maybe,” Hank conceded darkly, pressing ahead even though he found himself appalled at the prospect of this getting violent. Oh, the whole thing was fucked up: he shouldn’t be feeling so shivery at the idea of beating the shit out of a fifty-year-old drug addict. “Wanna find out?”

Frank just kept smiling at him, looking perfectly harmless unless you knew him, and oh, Hank fucking knew him. Threats wouldn’t stop him sinking his hooks into Bobby, and now that he’d interfered Frank would find some way to hurt Hank, he _knew_ it, and he knew it would be through his brother. Dimly, Hank understood that he was as close to having a panic attack as he’d been since he was twelve years old. All because of Bobby. All because of _him_.

The thought of his brother was the trigger, of that perfect dumbass face ruined by more beatings or just plain fear. Without considering it at all Hank stepped forward and kicked the old man in the chin. A cloud of sparks flew upward from his cigarette. And after that he wasn’t sure what happened.

The next thing he knew he was surrounded by people and three guys were holding him back. One of them was Sonny, who Hank distinctly recalled beating the shit out of not too many years ago. Lucky for Sonny, the two other jerks were a lot stronger. Hank quit resisting them and stood still, panting. He glanced down at his hand and saw it was bloody; he wiped it on his coat and smoothed his hair back into place. That felt better.

Hank looked over at the knot of Park denizens standing warily around the battered figure of Frank, who was on the ground now and making a noise like – well, like he just got kicked in the teeth. And a whole lot more, Hank realized, properly registering his own disheveled state. The others were watching him with vague consternation, but not exactly surprise. Course, they were all users and probably couldn’t summon up the necessary energy to be shocked.

“Leave my brother the fuck alone,” Hank spat at their prone father, the possession in his voice surely clear enough that even these junkies would hear it. Frank certainly heard it; he wheezed and rolled over, peered at Hank through a face that was swollen all down one side. And Hank wanted to recoil: because although the older man was a pitiful, cowed spectacle right now, he wasn’t any less unnerving.

“Cops are comin’,” Sonny said in his ear right then. Hank blinked, set his jaw, and pushed his way through the gawking crowd. He hoped these guys would be as fucking useless as they usually were, and leave Frank to wallow in his own pain for a while. It was the only positive outcome Hank could think of to his untimely explosion of rage.

As Hank ducked into the shadows and headed for the street before any of Hotch’s gang could turn up, all he could think of was what Bobby had begged him when he’d announced his intention to see their father. And what he could possibly tell his brother now.

 

* * *

 

 

“…Bobby,” said Hank the next morning. Bobby looked up from his toast – burnt, as usual – and gave him a sleepy glance.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m goin’. School don’t start for twenty minutes.”

“Not what I was gonna say.” Hank had slept but he still felt exhausted, though not as tired as Bobby looked.

“What’re you even doing up?” inquired Bobby grumpily. “Didn’t you have a job last night? Heard you come in late.”

“Look…shut up. What I wanted to say is, I don’t want ya goin’ out for a couple days. Just come home when you’re done with class.” Bobby yawned.

“I’m s’posed to see Marco and a couple of the other guys,” he told Hank. “They got somethin’ for me…” Bobby trailed off as Hank sat down opposite him, his gaze falling on the older man’s knuckles. “…Fuck,” he said quietly, suddenly wide awake. “Hank, what did you do?”

“He’s fine,” said Hank coolly. It was almost true, or would be in a week at the outside, provided he hadn’t cracked any bones.

“Jesus Christ.” Bobby had frozen, his face set in the old way that meant either panic or fury. “Is that what you meant by _talking_?”

“He’s _fine_ ,” Hank repeated. “Just…keep your distance, and hope he gets the message.” He knew Bobby wouldn’t be reassured; even Hank didn’t believe a word he was saying right now. He knew their father would ignore the damn message, and he knew this wasn’t the end of it. He just wanted Bobby out of the way for a bit while he figured out how to handle things.

“I can’t believe you did this.” Bobby looked aghast. Hank shrugged at him. “I mean, how did you…You’re always so _cold_ ,” he continued faintly. “You always got your shit together. How could you lose it like this?”

“It just went that way,” said Hank, who didn’t want to share the feeling of helplessness he’d experienced last night; that would frighten Bobby even more.

“Well thanks.” Bobby shook his head and stuck his face in his hands wearily. “That’s really gonna help a lot, Hank.”

“Just stay outta the Park,” Hank told him. “I gotta go out later, but when I get home I want to see you here. Okay?”

 

* * *

 

 

“…When I said I wanted you home,” said Hank tightly, “I didn’t mean with _him_.”

“What?” said their father through a busted lip, from his position on Hank’s own damn couch. He looked worse than Hank remembered, one eye swollen completely shut and his mean fucking face a mass of bruises. “Just popped round to have a chat with my son. Thought he’d be interested in seein’ the results of our little reunion.”

“Get out,” ordered Hank calmly, beating back the fury he felt at seeing Frank in his house, with his brother. Bobby was perched on a stack of boxes as far away from their father as possible, watching them both dully. What had the bastard said to him? “Unless you fancy a second helping.”

Frank got to his feet with some effort, and limped his way over to the door. Hank stood aside almost reflexively, not wanting the man anywhere near him.

“That’s okay.” Frank didn’t look pissed, though admittedly it was hard to tell with the state of his face. “Got what I came for.” He peered around. “Lotsa nice stuff here, huh.” Hank just waited. “See ya around, son.” To Hank’s annoyance, Bobby gave an unwilling nod.

“Out,” Hank said again, and closed the door on their father. He turned and leaned his back against it, letting out a slow breath. He folded his arms. Now that Frank was gone Bobby had got up and was watching him closely; he looked almost as tense as when their father had been in the room. “What?” asked Hank. Bobby seemed to jump as he spoke, so he looked away to give the kid time to calm down. Something about the place seemed unbalanced.

“Hey,” said Hank, distracted, “did that bastard walk out with my jacket?” He’d thought the chair looked kind of bare.

“Probably,” managed Bobby, sounding ready to escape.

“Goddammit, that thing was expensive, now I gotta steal another one.” He turned back to his brother. “And who the hell let him in to pinch it?” Hank didn’t give a crap about petty theft, not really, he was so disconcerted by the fact that Frank had been in his home. He took a step toward Bobby, who flinched. Hank stopped.

“What?” he demanded again. “Why you lookin’ at me like I’m gonna bite ya?” Bobby’s lips were white, his eyes fixed warily on Hank’s face; and in a moment of unpleasant connection the older man recognized the look: without doubt he had been wearing it himself last night. It was exactly how he watched Frank, and now he knew what feeling accompanied it. Was that how Bobby was thinking about him?

“Sit down,” he snapped, pointing to the vacated sofa. Without arguing for once in his life, Bobby did as he was told. “Ya think I’m angry with you?” Hank asked. Bobby kept quiet, which spoke volumes. “Ya think I blame you for openin’ the door?” Before last night, he would have; but not anymore, not now he _remembered_. Hank made himself speak gently, although it didn’t come natural to him. “And even if I did – which I don’t, Bobby, so stop makin’ that face – you think I’d punish you for it?”

“I didn’t want to,” said Bobby tentatively, huge eyes still watching him worriedly. “I just…had to.”

“I know it,” said Hank, crouching down in front of him so they were more nearly at eye level. “You dope.” Bobby plainly didn’t know what to make of this. Moving slowly, Hank touched his brother’s jaw with his bruised fingers. “You ain’t hurt, right? He didn’t lay a hand on ya?”

“…In that state?” Bobby huffed out a bitter little laugh. “Even he’s not dumb enough to try.”

“Good,” said Hank hoarsely, and then Bobby’s arms were around him, tight enough to ache.

“I’m sorry I let him in your house,” said Bobby in a rush, his voice muffled in Hank’s shirt. “I came right home like you said. But then he was just there, and he looked so fuckin’ bad, and I couldn’t help it…” Hank slid one hand across his brother’s back, and sighed.

“Yeah, I know.” Something in his tone must have touched an answering chord.

“You get it now, right?” muttered Bobby. “You get why it’s so hard…”

“Yeah,” Hank reassured him grimly. “Yeah, I remember.” At that Bobby turned heavy in his grasp, like the admission had released all his tension in one exhausting blow. Hank shut his eyes; the younger man hadn’t been this eager for contact with him since before Frank had turned up. Even longer than that. It felt good, as it always did, but more than that: it gave Hank a horrible inkling of how he would feel if he lost it. Bobby’s fingers were carding through his hair like Hank was the one who needed consoling.

“I’m gonna figure this out,” he promised, transferring one hand to the back of Bobby’s neck. Bobby made a hesitant sound; Hank was aware that he was probably holding too tight, but was experiencing a rush of such fierce possessiveness he couldn’t make his fingers let up. “You hear me, Bobby?” he pressed. He felt him shiver, then nod. “I ain’t gonna let that prick take you down,” he heard himself say, and turned to whisper against Bobby’s ear. “You’re mine, that’s all. You’re mine.”

 

* * *

 

 

A month later and Hank still hadn’t figured it out. He’d thought he might have some time, what with the state he’d left their father in; but as though the man had his own gravitational pull Bobby had gradually fallen back in with him, and things were just getting worse.

Hank couldn’t blame his brother, not now he’d remembered the spike of anxiety one word from Frank could inspire; and Bobby was smaller and softer than him, for all that the kid was fearless about everything else. But something had to be done. Talking had no effect on their father – that was no surprise, he was the master of manipulative bullshit; Hank now understood, to his disgust, where his own tendencies in that area had come from. Beating the shit out of Frank hadn’t done any good, either; if anything it made Bobby feel sorry for him.

Hank had even thought about the cops: it’d be easy enough to drop him in it. But he knew that the second their father was faced with arrest he’d rat Bobby out, because it was Bobby who had to supply the fucker. Hank had seen Hotch sniffing around, probably trying to figure out an angle he could use to get Frank to implicate his son. No, that was a stupid idea. Even if he could get Frank put away he’d be ten times worse when he got out.

This was going nowhere. So Hank forced himself to regroup, calm the fuck down and wait coolly for inspiration to strike. It wasn’t easy, seeing Bobby ditch his studies and the safety of home life to return to the street; but getting involved in a tug of war over him would just damage things even more.

 

It was the black eye that did it. That and the near miss that went along with it.

Hank had been asleep for a while – he was pretty deep, at least – when something in his hindbrain told him he wasn’t alone. That was enough to wake him up, ‘cause Bobby had been two days now without coming home, and Hank was on high alert for his return. He’d decided that next morning he’d go find him, but now, thank fuck, it seemed like that wouldn’t be necessary.

He lay in the musty dark and listened. A faint line of light on the pillow beside him told him the door had opened, then vanished again as it closed softly. The mattress dipped as another person climbed onto the bed. Hank’s sleepy senses, finally aware that something was off, prompted him to reach for the lamp.

“Don’t,” came Bobby’s hushed voice. And this was now officially weird, because Bobby _never_ came in his room. Not ever.

“What is it?” asked Hank in a matching whisper. Were _they_ being burgled? That should be entertaining. But no; Bobby sounded urgent, but not like someone was stealing the furniture. “Well?” There was some shuffling beside him as Bobby fidgeted, and the next time he spoke his voice was close enough that Hank could feel the air moving on his face.

“Nothin’,” said Bobby, and kissed him. It was so dark that his aim was off and he caught Hank right on the nose; but Hank knew what he’d been going for and, after a moment’s incredulity, was instantly on the move.

“Are you nuts?” Hank reached unerringly for Bobby’s throat, because this was not normal, even for them. Was his brother on something? What about all Bobby’s usual care, his caution where Hank was concerned? “Did somethin’ happen?” he demanded. He couldn’t think what might have prompted this.

“No,” murmured Bobby. His fingers slid down Hank’s chest over the worn fabric of his t-shirt, and Hank couldn’t prevent a pleasurable shiver at the contact. Then Bobby’s arm slipped around his back and suddenly they were pressed together through the blankets.

This was fucking crazy; this was no good. But when it came to the younger man Hank was only human, it turned out. So he pulled Bobby close and sank his face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the smell of him, laying kisses against his pale skin. Bobby was shaking in his grip, his pulse uneven, and despite every rational thought Hank was hard. Bobby had never started anything before, though he wasn’t averse to admitting that he’d wanted it. And now here he was, making a move. Did that mean he’d overcome all the guilt, his long-held moral objections? Hank found himself fiercely, intensely thrilled. For some reason, Bobby was giving in at last.

For some reason. That was like a bucket of cold water on the brain. Because his brother didn’t operate according to calm and logical thought like Hank did – or at least like Hank tried to – so why would he change his mind now? There was no particular reason for Bobby to step off the moral high ground, unless –

“Get off, Bobby,” Hank said firmly, and disengaged himself, though not without a physical pang of frustration. Bobby was clinging to him like a monkey, but after a minute gave up and lay still. Hank reached up and switched on the lamp, and there was Bobby looking flushed and ashamed of himself with an impressive shiner decorating his left eye.

“Where’d that come from?” Hank asked. He kept his voice level, because Bobby was looking at him like he was gonna be hit again. Also, Hank figured he already knew the answer. It was hardly the first time he’d seen Bobby after a beating, but that had been in the line of business; this time his brother sat there silently, and didn’t even try to explain it away. He just looked at Hank like he really was a kid again.

Hank quickly cataloged the rest of Bobby’s appearance; under his scrutiny the younger man’s ears turned red. He noticed the swollen knuckles on Bobby’s right hand and took him gently by the wrist.

“I hit him,” said Bobby numbly, flexing his fingers with difficulty. “He was sayin’ stuff about Mom, real vile stuff…so I told him to shut up. And he _looked_ at me and then he punched me in the face. So I hit him.” He gazed across at Hank, eyes wide. “I’m so fuckin’ scared.”

“You’re a brave little bastard,” Hank told him, quietly tamping down the fear and fury that was rising inside him, until it rested solid and slow-burning in his gut for when he needed it. “Dumb as hell, but brave.” On impulse he raised Bobby’s hand carefully and pressed his lips to the bruised knuckles. Bobby took a sharp breath, then let it out slowly once Hank released him.

“Hey,” said Bobby, with some hesitation, “you holdin’? Could _really_ use a fix tonight.” His light voice sounded dim, as though what had happened was some kind of tipping point. To Hank, it sounded like some life had gone out of him.

Hank nodded and got out of bed to retrieve his stash, because he understood. He knew why Bobby had come to him this way tonight. It was another kind of fix, that was all: temporary pleasure to make him forget all the shit he was in. And at this point, frankly, heroin was safer: if he let Bobby give up his principles now, let him in his bed, Hank knew there would be no retreating; and that wasn’t what his brother really wanted. He just wanted some comfort.

At the sight of him, Hank finally understood that this was never gonna get better while their father was still around. Not ever, not for either of them. And with that realization came another thought, the tail-end of an idea that hadn’t crossed his mind before. The logic was simple: Bobby’s life was more important than Frank’s. To make Bobby happy, Frank had to go. You couldn’t persuade him to go, or bully him or blackmail him. So there was only one option: Frank needed to die.


	12. Chapter 12

It was one thing to _maybe_ contribute to a parent’s death by passive neglect, thought Hank, remembering their mother; it would be very different if he actively tried to have one killed. It would be a new line for him; one that he’d never imagined he’d cross. But every day that Bobby didn’t come home made Hank feel more detached from the awfulness of the idea, and drew him a step closer to the point at which it seemed merely the sensible thing to do.

“What would it take,” Hank asked Bruno casually one lunchtime, after the debrief and payment for his latest freelance job, “to have someone put out of a guy’s way?”

Bruno gave him a quick, measuring glance, and went on eating his pizza; they were at his favorite restaurant in Queens, and he always seemed to be in a good mood there. Hank knew that Bruno didn’t particularly like him – nobody did – but the old man was sensible and knew the value of having calm and capable people around him. The Lucchese had a reputation for being a fairly peaceful and efficient Family, which was why Hank was raising the subject with him instead of one of his other contacts.

“We talkin’, like, hypothetically?” said Bruno, after he’d finished chewing.

“Sure, why not.”

“Permanently?”

“Yeah.” Hank was in no denial about that.

“That’d depend who it was,” the older man told him sedately, “and who was asking.”

“Such as?”

“Well,” said Bruno, “there’s some people we won’t touch. Politics, you know. And then there’s things we’d do for a regular associate that we wouldn’t for a guy we had less ties with.” He took a swallow of wine and waited.

Hank sighed inwardly: he knew what that meant, and had been almost certain Bruno would ask it, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. He’d known it wouldn’t be a case of payment in dollars; no, what Bruno wanted was, essentially, a service contract. To have Hank under his thumb. That would be risky, more dangerous work probably and more frequent; and it’d be hard to say no. Hank had always tried to avoid making permanent ties with organized crime; he didn’t like being part of a network, not when some other fucker’s mistake could mean the end of your life too. So he had to ask himself: was being rid of Frank worth it?

“That’d take some serious thought,” he said slowly. Bruno nodded approvingly; he didn’t care for rashness, which was most likely why he kept hiring Hank. “But suppose the hypothetical someone agreed to it?”

“I’d have to talk to my bosses,” explained Bruno, twirling the stem of the wine glass in his fingers and eyeing Hank speculatively. “But it could be done.”

“All right,” said Hank. He got up and put on his jacket. “I’ll see you around.”

 

That night Bobby came home in the early hours, moody and exhausted. To Hank, who had been snoozing on the sofa, it looked like he’d been crying; and Hank knew right away that Frank was escalating. Was hurting Bobby however he could. And all to get back at him.

Bobby shrugged aside all attempts at interrogation, and Hank was too tired to start a fight, so he went to bed. On his way he turned to see his brother sitting in the living room, pale fingers brushing the needle marks in his arm while he stared blankly at something shielded in his other hand. At that moment Bobby looked more like their mother than he ever had before.

 

* * *

 

 

“Okay,” said Hank when he next saw Bruno. He looked around casually – it was some strip joint off Times Square today, the guy sure knew how to vary his hangouts – but there was no-one within listening distance, not with the music so loud. “What you were saying last time? I want in.”

“Fine,” Bruno replied, after looking at him for a while, apparently to be sure Hank was serious enough about this not to be distracted by the free show of legs and tits. “Who d’you need takin’ care of?”

“…He goes by Frankie,” said Hank, taking the plunge. “Been scrounging and usin’ round Central Park about six months, you can usually find him there or at the bookmaker; probably at one of your guys’, it’s the right area.” Bruno didn’t ask why Hank wanted Frank out of the way; it was business, it didn’t matter.

“Got a surname?” was all he asked.

“He’s my father.” Hank looked Bruno right in the face, saw his eyes widen for a second in surprise, and Bruno was an undemonstrative guy.

“What the hell is wrong with you, boy?” demanded the older man, sitting up straight. Bruno had never been one of those people who couldn’t meet Hank’s stare, but right now his eyes were focused uncomfortably on his left ear instead. “That’s pretty sick; he’s your own blood!”

“Yeah, well, so is my brother,” Hank said firmly, “and that’s why this has to happen.”

“…Your little brother, right?” said Bruno after a minute. Hank wasn’t surprised that the man kept tabs on the people employed by his Family, but he didn’t love the idea of a bunch of wise guys having Bobby on their radar.

“Didn’t he approach one of my distributors a while back? Wanted work as a dealer,” mused Bruno, as if to himself. Hank narrowed his eyes; the stupid little fuck. “Yeah, Santo told me. But in the end he put a veto on it.” Bruno tapped his beer bottle thoughtfully, still not looking at him. “Kind of a dumb kid, isn’t he?”

“Undoubtedly.” Hank leaned back and tried to look reasonable. “That’s why I gotta look out for him.”

“You got us to ban our dealers from supplying him a couple years ago,” Bruno observed. “I’m guessing that didn’t work too great.” He nodded slowly. “Still, props to you for tryin’ to straighten him out. It’s a fuckin’ nasty drug.”

“No argument here,” said Hank. “But Bobby’s in way more danger from Frank than from the junk right now.” He paused. “To be honest, it’s the winning combination of both I’m worried about.”

“The man’s his father. You honestly think he’s a danger?”

“Ever since we were born,” Hank stated harshly. “Bastard ruined my mother’s life.” That was a good line. He could sense Bruno judging him, and forced himself to relax. “You’re right, they’re both family. But my brother is worth a thousand of Frank to me. And I got a duty to protect him. I want him safe, so I want our father _gone_.”

“You’re a cold fucker, aren’t you, Hank,” said Bruno, but at least he didn’t look so unnerved.

“Everyone says that.” Hank shrugged. “I ain’t sure anymore. All I wanna know is if you can take care of it. I’ll make any reasonable deal you care to name.”

“…All right,” said Bruno at last. “I think we can solve your problem. How and when and where? Or will you leave it up to the experts?”

“The how and the where don’t matter,” Hank told him calmly. “But I gotta get an alibi for myself.” Bruno nodded judiciously. “And it has to wait ‘til Bobby’s out of the way. So might be a while.”

“What you plannin’ to do with the kid?” asked Bruno.

“Don’t know. Somethin’ always turns up. But I don’t want him anywhere near it; the cops are always on his ass over distribution as it is.”

“Okay,” said Bruno. “Just let me know when you’re ready.” He extended one large, chapped hand across the table. Hank shook it; no backing out now. “Lookin’ forward to workin’ with ya,” the older man told him. Hank smiled thinly. He wasn’t, at all. But if this came off, it would all be worth it.

 

* * *

 

 

It was Frank himself who provided the opportunity. A year earlier Hank would have found that fact amusing; now he was just intent on getting it done.

This time it was Sammy who called it in. Hank was surprised at that, but figured whoever else was around had ganged up on him and made him do it; Sammy was kinda lame like that. They’d stuck him with it ‘cause they thought Hank would be fucking mad. And he was. But also quick to spot a good chance.

“Hey, man,” came Sammy’s constantly-baked voice down the phone. Hank glanced at the wall clock, which was slow; still, it was barely five in the afternoon.

“What is it?” said Hank quickly, because he was hardly on terms with Sammy where they were calling each other up for a chat. “Is it Bobby?”

“You better get round here, dude.” Fucking hippie. “He looks pretty out of it this time. Won’t wake up.”

“For Christ’s sake,” muttered Hank, because he’d really thought, before Frank had wriggled his way back into their lives, that he was done with Bobby’s O.D. emergencies. And then, “Well, where is he, ya moron?!”

“Marcy’s.”

“On my way. For fuck’s sake, don’t let him choke.” Hank grabbed his car keys, thought for a minute, pocketed a few other necessities and booked it in the direction of the tenements.

 

Marcy’s place had one half-decent room, where she brought her johns, and the rest of it was falling down. Apparently this evening she was off duty, because the whole apartment was filled with assorted junkies, dopeheads and other wastes of space. Oh, and her kid, which two of the other hookers were quieting down while Marcy and Sonny attended to Bobby.

“He wake up?” demanded Hank, pushing Sammy off the bed and taking his place beside his brother.

“For a bit,” said Marcy. She prodded Bobby. “Now just this. Sorry, Hank, you gotta get him outta here, I can’t keep him overnight.”

“That’s all right,” said Hank, who had other plans anyway. He gave Bobby an experimental slap. “He been comin’ around often lately?”

“Not on his own,” Marcy told him. “Sometimes comes with your dad.” That made sense: if Bobby himself wanted to use, he knew to ask Hank for the good stuff, the safe stuff. But if Frank was jonesing, he’d surely drag Bobby along to whatever shit was going. And make him pay for it.

“Frankie was here tonight.” Sonny blinked slowly at Bobby as he spoke. “Don’t think Bobby was plannin’ to get high, but…well, you know Frankie.”

“Very unfortunately. So where the fuck’s _he_ now?”

“Disappeared,” said Marcy, putting a hand on Bobby’s clammy forehead as his dopey eyelashes began to flutter. The younger man went still again. “When that started.”

“Big surprise,” said Hank grimly.

“He took everythin’ Bobby was holding,” Sonny offered helpfully. “Junk, cash. Said he was gonna keep it safe in case Bobby had to go to the emergency room.”

This was it, then, thought Hank, as he roped in two of the guys who were able to stand to drag Bobby out to the sidewalk. They put him down on Hank’s backseat, too wasted to be gentle. Bobby moaned, then went quiet.

Hank had decided what was gonna happen now that Frank had thoughtfully left his brother alone and helpless and in need of medical attention. He transferred his own stash and a wad of bills from his pocket to Bobby’s, and drove off to cruise around the Park. He knew just who to go to; it was only a question of finding him.

 

* * *

 

 

“What the -” exclaimed Hotch twenty minutes later, sticking his head out of the window as Hank pulled up hard next to his VW. He was parked on 70th, as he often was, his stupid car lurking in the entrance to an alley while he sat around watching for petty criminals to coerce.

“Here,” said Hank, opening the back door and dragging out Bobby’s limp form. “You can have this.” For once in his life Hotch looked speechless.

“…He oughta be in the E.R.,” he managed eventually.

“Take him, then.” Hank gestured to the cop’s little car, and after a moment Hotch got out and opened the door so Hank could deposit his brother inside. “And when you get there you’ll find he’s got a stash on him big enough to put him away for a year.” At that Hotch turned to give him a sharp stare.

“What’re you doing?” the blonde cop demanded. “Dropping Bobby in it like this.”

“I’m sick of dryin’ him out.” Hank shrugged and shot his unconscious brother a cold glance. “This is one time too many. Maybe a spell inside’ll get him clean like before and I can have some damn peace and quiet.” Hotch gave him a long look, and Hank knew he wasn’t buying it; but that didn’t matter so long as he took Bobby away.

“Come on, Hank,” said Hotch, leaning on his car door. “What’re you up to? It’s not like we met yesterday, I know you. I know how you are about Bobby. If anyone else tried to pull this you’d go goddam crazy.”

“What do you care?” Hank asked patiently. “You been tryin’ to nab him for ages. You tried it through Helen, you tried it through our dad; the only one you never tried it on with was me. Ain’t this a nice surprise present for ya?”

“Maybe.”

“Look,” said Hank, climbing back into his Chevy and winding the window down, “are you gonna get him to the hospital or not?”

“…Yeah,” agreed Hotch eventually. “Cheers for the tip-off. We’ll be sure to let Bobby know who ratted on him.” Hank gave him a disagreeable smile and put the car in gear. “Got my eye on you!” called the Narco as he drove off.

Hank hoped so; all Hotch would see from now on was a model of good citizenship. Meanwhile, Bobby would be locked away safe and above suspicion and getting clean. Hank’s features dropped into a frown. Once again, he didn’t know how Bobby was going to react to any of this; just that it would hurt him. But it had to be done, and for his own good, because they couldn’t live this way anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

“Don’t say anything,” Bobby told him, when Hank came to see him before the trial. He was right back where he’d been the last time, after Helen, and looking the same: pale and ill and woebegone. Only this time, Hank realized, his brother wasn’t mad.

“I wasn’t gonna.” That was true, anyway. He didn’t know what to tell Bobby.

“I know you did this,” Bobby said quietly, leaning against the cubicle wall with one shoulder propping him up. “You planted that stuff on me; I know it wasn’t mine.”

“Hotch told ya, huh.”

“Yeah.” Bobby rubbed a hand across his eyes. “What’s it gonna be, you reckon? Six months?”

“Something like that,” said Hank, shrugging. “Plenty of time to get you straight again.”

“Ya know something?” the younger man asked, rocking back absently on his chair until one of the guards yelled at him to knock it off. “I ain’t surprised.” He sighed, and finally looked at Hank properly. “I don’t even mind. Not really.”

“No?” Hank couldn’t decide if this was Bobby being sensible or just apathetic. If the latter, he laid the blame entirely on Frank for knocking all the feeling out of his brother. And the fucker would regret it. “…What?” he said, resurfacing. Felt like he’d missed something there.

“I said, I oughta be used to you strong-arming me by now,” repeated Bobby dully. “You got some of Pop in you, whatever you say. Except he fucks with my head to get his way; you just grab me and drag me round the city and lock me up.” Hank looked at him steadily; he hated those comparisons to their father. Bobby shook his head. “You’re never gonna let me just…try and get it right myself, are you?”

“I tried,” Hank assured him.

“For what, about two minutes?” That got a smirk out of Hank. Bobby just gazed at him, tired and resigned and looking very small in his convict gear. “I don’t blame you,” he said. “I know you think you know best; hell, maybe ya do. Ain’t like I’m sorry to get away from him for a bit, anyway.” Hank wanted to tell him not to worry, that it would only be a few weeks before the biggest threat to both their wellbeing was gone for good. He restrained himself to a disgusted look instead.

“That sack of shit.” Bobby frowned uncomfortably. Probably hadn’t wanted to get Hank started on their father. “He shouldn’t have left you when ya needed help,” Hank told his brother. “He fucked up, letting you go. Well, that’s his loss, ain’t it; now he’ll have to fend for himself.”

“‘Cause _you’d_ never drop me in it,” observed Bobby, with a small resurgence of sass. Hank pinned him with another pale stare.

“That’s different. I didn’t leave you, Bobby; I ain’t ever gonna.” He was aware that this was maybe coming out more threatening than consolatory, but Bobby was sure paying attention. “You’ll have to work a whole lot harder to get away from _me_.”

Bobby was staring back at him through the glass, his white face a kaleidoscope of reactions so that Hank couldn’t tell if he was more sick or comforted at this declaration of Hank’s intention to be an overbearing bastard.

“Well,” said Bobby at last, after another guard came along, banged him on the head and told him to hurry up, “I ain’t goin’ anywhere. Not for months. Guess you got me right where you want me.”

“For now,” Hank agreed. “But you ain’t gonna be in here forever. And when you get out, everything’s gonna be better.”

“Yeah?” said Bobby, numbly.

“Promise.”

 

* * *

 

 

Hank knew their father wouldn’t let his life support – which was what Bobby was – be cut off without comment. Unlike Bobby, though, Frank wasn’t into confrontations: he much preferred to sidle up to the attack.

So when one of the guys on the table behind Hank leaned his chair back and slid slowly into view, he was unsurprised to see it was their father. This time, Hank was feeling pretty good about the situation: whatever underhand threats Frank made, there was nothing he could do to Bobby; and Hank could take care of himself.

They sat in silence for a minute. Hank wasn’t about to speak first – he’d be quite content not to talk to Frank at all, but he was damned if he’d be the one to break and walk out. To pass the time he looked across the diner at the godawful striped wallpaper and at Sammy, who was having an in-depth argument with the waitress about stuff living in his ketchup. It was the kind of surreal yet mind-numbing scene that was so characteristic of the Park. Without Bobby there to liven things up it just gave Hank a headache; he was only there at all because he’d been replenishing his weed.

Hank could see their father’s face in the corner of his vision, and was amazed at how just a glimpse could make the anger in his gut rise up: the nose that was so like Hank’s own but with the skin surrounding it pulled down by scowl lines, the rheumy, calculating eye. He clenched his jaw, and took a sip of milk.

At last Frank caved. Hank already considered that a kind of victory.

“Pretty pleased with yourself, ain’t ya,” said Frank.

“Yes.” Hank leaned his elbows on his chair-back and smiled for the first time, that mean expression he shared with the old man.

“Bobby know who dropped him in it?”

“Well he knows whose _fault_ it was,” Hank replied. “In the grand scheme of things.”

“So that’s what you told him, eh?” Frank sighed loudly, eyes still fixed on his son. Hank could feel the stare at the top of his spine, a crawling kind of sensation. “Suppose you told him that rattin’ him out was for his own good, too.”

“That’s his conclusion to come to,” Hank said firmly, remembering his last conversation with Bobby; he wasn’t too sure that he’d been as neutral as all that, but Bobby had said himself that he didn’t mind. Hank wondered if he’d feel the same after the sentencing tomorrow.

“You’re a selfish kid,” Frank told him in a conversational voice. “Ungrateful. Always were.”

“You oughta just leave town now,” Hank told him, ignoring this. He was quite happy to make a scene in the diner, as a general rule, but he’d prefer not to give the cops any evidence that he was fighting with his father. Not with what he had planned.

“But Bobby ain’t.” Frank shot him half a wink. “Ya think you can pry him away, make him your own little earner?” Hank curled his lip in disgust, because that was really what their father thought he was like: that they were the same. “They got visitin’ hours, ya know,” Frank informed him. “Sure I can talk him round again.”

“Like he’d see you.”

“Maybe not,” agreed Frank. “But eventually he’ll feel bad enough, sweet kid that he is. You can’t play guard dog forever.” Hank looked at him, cold again now and glad of it. This conversation was making his choice seem so much more acceptable.

“You can’t hurt him no more,” he said calmly, finishing his milk.

“Perhaps you’re right,” said their father, leaning closer, and this time Hank didn’t flinch. “But I’ll surely give it a try.”

Hank put the carton down gently, laid a handful of pocket change on the table and walked out. Those were the words that decided him; he wanted it done _soon_. Then he could start to put their lives back together.


	13. Chapter 13

“So,” said Hotch two days later, dropping down on the courthouse bench beside Hank with his own cup of coffee. “We got the conviction: six months. You’re welcome.” He exhaled and warmed his gloved hands on the paper cup, breath hanging in the air. Hank observed that his bottom lip was cut again – more fights with sullen street trash who didn’t want to spend a night in the slammer.

“Sure,” Hank replied. “Out in four if he’s good.” He thought about getting up and walking off, but there didn’t seem a lot of point in conceding space to the detective: now that Bobby was away there was nothing much Hotch could do to Hank except be annoying.

“I still don’t know why you did that.” The cop sounded tiresomely earnest, as usual, but it didn’t bother Hank so much anymore. He supposed he had gotten used to it. “But if you did do it for Bobby, make sure the lesson sticks this time, huh? I know _you’re_ not going to change your spots -” Hank gave him a sour half-smile. “- but he could, if he wanted. Or if you made him want it.”

“You got a pretty high notion of my influence,” said Hank, staring across at the trees in Foley Square. Nosy prick, this one was.

“I do.” Hotch crossed his ankles and took another gulp of coffee, pulling a face at its heat. “We both know what Bobby’s like.”

“Do we?”

“Someone’s gonna lead him,” the Narco continued. “It’s the way he is. I’ve seen guys like him before, it’s what they thrive on. And it’s either gonna be you or your dad.” Hank could feel Hotch looking at him, and carefully kept his face immobile. “You judge for yourself who’s going to get him into less trouble.”

“Don’t you worry about Bobby,” Hank told him.

“I’m not worried about Bobby,” Hotch countered quickly, “I’m worried about everyone he’s gonna end up hurting if he goes back to his old tricks.”

“You’re still thinkin’ about that chick,” stated Hank, who didn’t care to say Helen’s name when he didn’t have to. Hotch clicked his tongue as if Hank was a disappointing pupil. “Move on,” said Hank flippantly, “the rest of us have. You’ve said your piece, now ain’t you got anythin’ better to do? You oughta be out bothering criminals, that’s your job.”

“That’s what I’m doing.”

“All right,” said Hank. “I’ll take your opinion under advisement. I was gonna do it anyway.” He stretched his legs out parallel to Hotch’s, noted that when it came to quality his own boots were better than the cop’s. Over near the street he could see a few of Bobby’s acquaintances gawking furtively in their direction. Maybe they thought he’d ratted Bobby out, seeing as he was looking so chummy with Hotch. Hank found that he didn’t have it in him to care either way. He only wanted the next few months over with.

“Y’know,” began Hotch, “it doesn’t have to be just Bobby. You’re too smart to have to live like this, Hank, you could easily go straight too.” Hank sniffed derisively. “Sure, you’re a slippery untrustworthy son of a bitch,” acknowledged the cop, “but that’s gotta be an advantage in so many careers. You could get out and drag Bobby up with you.”

“I like this life fine,” Hank informed him flatly, amused and faintly astonished at this blonde do-gooder. “Although I wouldn’t mind a nicer car.” And he had thought Hotch was such a cynic.

“You can’t _possibly_ ,” said Hotch.

“What about you?” Hank shot back, turning to look at the detective. “Why don’t you get out? Ain’t like you’re doin’ any good in the Park, and you been around for years. However many small-fry dealers you put away, it’s a fuckin’ drop in the ocean.”

“Feels like it,” Hotch agreed drily. He frowned absently into his cup. “Especially when they keep floating back up.”

“You oughta go ride a desk. Get promoted. Ya wanna make this city all nice and clean and shiny, you’ll do better takin’ on the cartels at the top. Hell, join the Feds. Everyone knows the guys on the ground can’t do squat to change things.”

“We can,” said Hotch, and sighed. “We do.”

“It’s an excuse.” Looking at the younger man’s face, Hank had a moment of clarity. “You’re just like the rest of us, ain’t you. Like me, and Bobby, and all of them.” He jerked his head toward the others – there were always a few Park people hanging around the courthouse. “This is the only way you know how to live. This is your _place_. Ya wouldn’t leave it if you could, and if ya did you’d have no fuckin’ clue what to do with yourself.”

“You _are_ a mean bastard.” Hotch gave his cup a bitter smile.

“Yeah,” said Hank equably, “but at least I got some awareness.” He folded his arms against the cold. “I know where I came from, I know what I am. And I’ll do whatever I gotta do to make things better; for the only people who matter.”

“For you, you mean.” Hotch looked at him.

“Course I mean for me. And Bobby.”

“Of course.”

“But who matters to you?” asked Hank, getting back to his point. “You ever think about that? Who’re _you_ makin’ life better for by stickin’ it out here?”

“…Good question,” said Hotch eventually. He cracked a wry smile before his face fell back into its solemn cast. “It’s right what your dad says, you talk some pretty good bullshit.”

“Don’t you listen to him,” advised Hank. Hotch was too bright for that, surely; he might be a pain in the ass, but he wasn’t entirely stupid. “Ya think me and Bobby are trouble…Well. That fucker’s the original sin.”

“Don’t worry.” Hotch sighed again and finally got up, crumpling his cup and sticking his hands in his sheepskin pockets. “I got my eye on all of you.”

“Be seein’ you,” said Hank coolly as the Narco wandered off. He sat for a few more minutes, thinking about Frank, and Bobby, and Hotch. That had almost been an intelligent conversation. Hank shook himself; he should really get focused on work. If he thought he had enough in common with Hotch to make talking with him seem appealing, it was probably time to quit thinking. Time to steal some shit.

 

* * *

 

 

Now that Bobby was safely tucked away in the Tombs, Hank was eager to get on with the main event. He knew it would be prudent to wait a few weeks and let the new status quo settle itself; but dammit, he just didn’t feel safe with Frank still around. He seemed to see their father everywhere, and knew he had tried to visit Bobby. Hank didn’t want to wait anymore.

But before any of that could happen, said Bruno, the Family had a job planned. And it was Hank’s turn to get involved.

“It’s more or less insurance,” the old wise guy told him in what Hank presumed was a comforting tone. This time it was the strip club again, in the back office where the music was muted to a dull thump through the walls. “Shows you’re serious about our deal.”

“All right,” said Hank neutrally, hands folded tidily on his knee. “Fair enough.” He privately thought Bruno should know him well enough by now to tell when he was goddam serious. Then again, Hank was quite aware of his own manner and knew he could come across as a sarcastic prick to people who didn’t see him every day.

Such as the man sitting in the most comfortable chair just behind Bruno. Hank had done a quick scan when he was first led in by one of Bruno’s goombahs, but didn’t feel quite comfortable staring at the new guy for long. A bit younger than Bruno, maybe forty-five, and taller than Hank. Dark hair, buffed nails, and lines around his mouth that suggested he was always grinning. And judging by the older man’s attitude, someone who ought to be taken seriously.

“Ya might even enjoy yourself,” Bruno said, and the mystery guy lifted the corners of his mouth. Hank raised his eyebrows. “Should be more of a challenge than those offices we had you casing, anyway.”

“How long is it gonna take?” Hank wasn’t particularly reassured by the word ‘challenge’ coming from this grizzled mobster, and he wanted to know how soon Bruno would hold up his end of the bargain and ensure Bobby was safe forever. Which was how long Hank was gonna be stuck working with these people. Christ.

“Maybe an hour for the actual switcheroo,” said Bruno cryptically. “And that’ll be the fun part. The rest is all plannin’. And meeting the other guys. And then, once it goes off, we’ll deal with your problem. Yes?”

Hank didn’t respond, because there was too much in that statement designed to confuse the fuck out of the listener, and he didn’t want to start this with endless questions. That should come later, once he had a damn clue what Bruno was talking about. His employer – Hank didn’t like that concept, but he’d signed off on it now – twinkled conspiratorially at him. Hank narrowed his eyes; he knew when he was being screwed with, and now he was under Bruno’s thumb the geezer was laying it on thick. Probably as a test.

“Okay, okay,” relented Bruno. The man behind him grinned a bit wider, and Hank had to work not to feel slightly intimidated. He wondered if that was how people reacted to his own smile, which Bobby assured him was plenty unpleasant. “A bit of background to get ya up to speed,” continued the older man comfortably. “You heard about the ‘French Connection’?” Bruno made the words sound as distasteful as if he was discussing his mother’s underwear.

“Of course.”

“Well,” said Bruno, “that ain’t what it’s called. You don’t need to know what it’s called. All you _do_ need to know is that New York’s finest are holdin’ hundreds of kilos of heroin, good quality Turkish, in the NYPD evidence rooms. They been sittin’ on it for years. That’s what caused those panics; bet you remember _them_.” He meant Bobby.

“That so?” said Hank. He wondered why the man was telling him about drugs; Hank was a burglar, not a pusher, and a deal was a deal but there were some things he wasn’t about to sign up for.

“It _was_.” Bruno gave him a look, had probably figured what he’d been thinking. “We’ve been stealin’ it.”

Hank raised his eyebrows higher, and the guy sitting behind Bruno cracked another smile. If it was true, he was right to; as a professional, Hank was impressed. His brain immediately went to work contemplating how they were working it. Had to be corrupt cops involved – Jackson’s type sprang to mind – and a damn convincing replacement system. Even the police had to check on the shit they confiscated occasionally, lazy pricks though they were, and you couldn’t abstract that much junk without putting something back in its place.

“Don’t bother yourself about how it’s being done,” Bruno advised him. Hank nodded because, beyond professional curiosity, he really didn’t want to know. The less Family secrets he was told, the better. “Point is, our boss is getting some of it. But we can always stand to have more. And the Bonanno boys got a big cut. So we’re gonna have you steal it back.”

“…From another Family,” said Hank, already certain he was gonna die. Everyone knew the Bonanno Family was a shitstorm of crazy. Bruno took a sip of his drink and flapped a hand at him.

“Not all of it. And ain’t like we’re askin’ you to steal directly from the underbosses. Nah, Paulie here, his guys got beef with a couple of their distributors. So before they split up the junk and ship it out to the East Coast, we’re gonna pinch some. Anonymously, of course. Then _they’ll_ have to explain to their higher-ups.”

The man behind Bruno – Paul, apparently – smiled again. Something made Hank really unwilling to learn any more about him, or even hear him speak; but he guessed the guy was above Bruno, so he was probably running this whole fucked-up circus. Goddammit, if Hank had wanted to get killed he’d have offed Frank himself and let the trigger-happy cops shoot him. Now it was gonna be gangsters; wonderful. He folded his arms.

“We want this to work,” Bruno reassured him. “It ain’t a suicide mission. That’s why we want someone who knows what he’s doin’ for the actual burglary. And seeing as we’re doing you a favor, you seemed the one to ask.” Hank looked at him steadily, he knew Bruno liked that; he didn’t like dramatics, or tantrums, or smartasses. Might as well keep him sweet, thought Hank, because really, he had no choice.

“All right,” he agreed, already disliking the sensation of being roped in by other people. But this was for Bobby. “What’s the big plan?”

 

* * *

 

 

Hank waited patiently in the alley between a four-story apartment block and a run-down delicatessen. He didn’t know Brunswick too well – it was out of his territory and wasn’t affluent enough to make it a worthwhile workplace – but he’d spent the last week getting the lay of it with a friend of Sammy’s, who’d lived everywhere and would tell you anything you wanted for a hit. Bruno was right: Knickerbocker Avenue was crawling with Bonanno mobsters under its poor immigrant surface, and it was most certainly a heroin hub.

“How long’re these fuckers gonna make us wait?” muttered Joey, shifting from one foot to the other beside him. “Stinks of cat piss in here.”

Hank rolled his eyes under cover of darkness. The guy was older than him, most likely in his thirties, but Hank couldn’t help feeling like he was this moron’s babysitter. They’d been waiting a half hour now; Hank was used to that, even liked it: settling into the dark, waiting for the atmosphere to get accommodated to your presence, then sliding on in when the time was just right.

“Freezin’ my ass off,” Joey complained. Hank didn’t think this douchebag had had to wait an hour in his life. He spent a moment wondering just where Joey stood in the Lucchese street hierarchy that he’d been the one chosen to keep an eye on Hank: whether it was a promotion for the guy or a punishment. Then he stopped wondering, because really, he didn’t want to know.

“Hope you’re plannin’ to exercise a bit more stealth when we’re in there,” Hank told him under his breath.

“Shut up, I know what I’m doin’.” Hank hadn’t seen much evidence of that in the week since he’d been introduced to the people who would be involved in this game – that’s what it was, he was sure, some inter-Family gambit that he had no desire to get caught up in. As far as he could tell, Joey was only interested in large dog breeds and strippers; they were pretty much all he talked about. And here was Hank, up to his neck.

He heard Joey open his mouth to bitch some more, but before he could get a sentence out there came the sound of bike engines revving obnoxiously from the other end of the Avenue, and the smashing of plate glass. Finally. Hank heard windows along the street opening as the residents put their heads out for a free show, and the shouting of store owners coming down from their apartments.

Joey sidled excitedly toward the mouth of the alley and made to stick his head out.

“Don’t do that,” said Hank quietly. The bigger man made a dismissive noise but pulled his dumb head back in. Really, Joey would’ve been better on the other side of this plan, the side currently posing as hooligans and causing all the attention-grabbing property damage at the far end of the street. It seemed more his thing.

Beneath the general commotion, Hank heard the front door open to the café adjoining the deli; then came footsteps and enthusiastic Italian. Hank couldn’t really understand the language – his mother didn’t speak it and Frank had never bothered teaching them – but it sounded like they were anticipating some fun.

“What they say?” he inquired.

“Huh? Oh.” Joey stepped closer. “They said someone’s gonna get the shit kicked out of ‘em. Ain’t they in for a surprise.”

“All right,” said Hank softly. “Let’s go.”

They approached the café round the back, where the light above the door was busted. One of Bruno’s guys had seen to that a few days ago and nobody had bothered fixing it yet. Hank moved slowly, calmly, one ear on the commotion coming from the main Avenue and the other on the tiny sounds in his immediate space. He liked this sensation, always had: the tightly controlled adrenaline, the knowledge that his careful forethought was about to pay off, and the undercurrent of risk if it didn’t. Mind you, tonight the undercurrent was more like Niagara Falls.

“Hurry up,” came Joey’s voice, at a low volume that still somehow failed to be subtle. Of course, thought Hank, extracting his lock picks, there was no buzzkill like an unwanted partner in crime. “Told Uncle Paulie we shoulda brought a flashlight,” said Joey impatiently, leaning on a stack of crates. “How can you do it in the fuckin’ dark?”

“Just shut up,” breathed Hank, crouching down in front of the door. This was the value of planning. He’d been here last week, before the light got broken, and had figured out just what kind of lock it was: make and everything. Then he’d gone away and had a few practice runs at other, less risky, doors around town. And now here they were, and he didn’t need a goddam flashlight.

“…I don’t like you,” said Joey grumpily, in his ear.

“Shame,” murmured Hank, addressing his reply to the paintwork. “We better call off the wedding. Now zip it, please.” He could feel the dumb punk making faces behind him, and wished again that Paul hadn’t insisted he take him. Even Bobby was more mature.

A minute later and Hank could feel Joey getting edgy, though his own senses told him they were probably good as far as the diversion on the street was concerned. At last he heard the snick of the tumblers falling in the lock, and there it was, the feeling of satisfaction that in the old days had been the closest thing to genuine pleasure he had known. He straightened up cautiously.

“Come on, then.”

Once they were inside he found Joey could move silently when he wanted to. Bruno’s men had done enough reconnaissance to pinpoint the quietest day of the week for the café that was fronting this particular distributor, how many guards would stay after closing – two – and where most of the Bonanno guys on the Avenue were likely to be at this time of night. With the men who’d just left to join in the chase and supposed ass-kicking of the Lucchese soldiers, the place should be empty. Just long enough.

Hank and his pain-in-the-ass shadow slipped through the kitchen and down a bare corridor to the office; Hank had seen the layout in the drawing he’d requested. This wasn’t exactly a casino heist, sure, but it was better to be over-prepared than to have no damn clue where you were going. Another lock, another minute of anticipation.

“There ain’t no safe,” whispered Joey, once they were in with the door gently shut behind them. “Reckon it’s one of them hidden things like in the movies?”

“Tell you what,” suggested Hank, “why don’t you go look for the kind of fine art paintin’ a classy joint like this’d be stashing a wall safe behind, and I’ll get to work on those filing cabinets there.” He knew that if Paul and Bruno had really expected a safe they’d have given Hank someone more expert to accompany him; his own abilities in that area weren’t so great.

“Fuck you.” Joey followed him. “Who’d keep ten kilos of junk in a goddam desk drawer?”

“Someone who thinks they ain’t gonna get screwed over by their own partners in crime?”

“Ya know what, keep your fuckin’ opinions to yourself.”

Hank ignored him and frowned at the dusty cabinets. He was starting to feel an itch at the back of his neck, and it didn’t necessarily mean anything – could be Joey’s presence was throwing him off – but maybe it did. Time to get on with it and get out.

“Hey,” he muttered, “it’d actually be more use if you go stand at the street door and listen.”

“And let you help yourself to the stuff?” Joey shook his head. “No way. I’m here to watch you, dumbass.” Hank shrugged and started on the cabinet drawers. Files, files, couple of handguns, recipes, porn. He was on the second to last drawer when he got that prickling feeling again – but there were the bags at last, buried under a bunch of old cleaning rags.

“Right,” murmured Hank, “got ‘em.” He grabbed ten, as planned. “Hand me the stuff.” Joey nodded and began to extract the replacement bags from his many coat pockets. They looked exactly the same, Hank was pleased to note. Someone had suggested powder sugar to fill up the fakes, but Bruno said flour and cornstarch had always done him proud with the NYPD and would work just as well on the Bonanna distributors. Until someone tested it, but it’d be too late then anyway.

Hank stuck the replacements in the cabinet, locked it again and put the real stuff in his own capacious pockets; Joey was already out of the room. He paused to lock up the office door too, and when he looked up the wise guy – and that was stretching the term – had gone ahead. Hank hoped he had the sense to get out and wait quietly.

When he reached the kitchen, he found himself pausing. It was very quiet, just the faint hubbub from the action far away on the Avenue. Steel pots shone dully in the streetlight where the room wasn’t entirely in shadow. And then Hank registered the quiet clip of footsteps outside. Was it Joey already, waiting in the alley? No: more than one pair. Getting louder.

Hank exhaled slowly through his nose. Fucking spectacular. His senses didn’t lie, and he should have paid attention as soon as he’d felt that tingle at the back of his neck. They were heading this way, he knew it; and, barring some kinda Tom and Jerry scenario with the frying pans on the wall, he was probably gonna die in the next sixty seconds.

To his slight surprise, Hank was actually scared. He had always thought that, while he didn’t have a death wish or anything, if he did happen to croak on the job or overdose while chipping he would be fairly resigned to it. But now he was not fucking resigned, he was spiking adrenaline. So, as the footsteps and low voices got closer to the door, he slid across the kitchen and into the meat freezer. But he did grab the biggest pan on the way, somewhat turning this burglary into armed robbery.

He didn’t shut himself in; that’d be a cliché way to go. There was a slight possibility the Bonanno boys wouldn’t notice, and he could sneak out later. If he didn’t freeze to death first. He felt his teeth start to chatter, and couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or if he was just scared shitless. The footsteps stopped. Then, before the street door could start to open, Hank heard a noise like a baseball bat hitting a side of beef, a bellow, and a confused string of rapid-fire Italian.

“Hey, fuck you!” came the muffled sound of Joey’s voice raised in a shout, before what sounded like a full-scale fight broke out. Insofar as Hank could tell, from his position crouched in the freezer. He had no intention of coming out for a better look, although the fear was subsiding under a kind of car-crash curiosity. Instead, he stuck his hands under his armpits and took the opportunity to examine his response just now.

What did it mean, being this scared? he wondered, to the unmistakable sound of a body meeting a trash can at speed. Had he always been like this, unbeknownst to himself, and just never had the opportunity to get so up close and personal with death? Or was it something else? He thought it might be. No, he was almost sure: this was all because of Bobby. Hank knew in his bones – which were all in their correct places and hopefully would make it through the night that way – that before his brother had come to live with him he would never have been so perturbed at the prospect of kicking the bucket.

Someone outside made a wet, gurgling noise. Then there was relative silence. Suddenly Hank found himself missing Bobby with an intensity he hadn’t imagined possible. He’d never thought he had it in him to be this damn soft; but he wanted to get out of this, and he wanted to see his brother, _now_. But even in the best-case scenario that wasn’t gonna happen, not with Bobby in jail. Fuck.

Hank took a deep breath and told himself to calm down; maybe this wasn’t the time for thinking after all. He cocked an ear, but the sounds from the alley seemed to have stopped. With great caution Hank picked himself up, slipped out of the freezer and over to the back door, replacing the pan as he did so. He stood there behind it for a couple more minutes, long enough for anyone waiting to jump him to get bored. Then he turned the handle, nudged open the door an inch and peered out.

“Huh.” Finally, Joey’s usefulness had become apparent: there in the alley were the two Bonanno guys, but they were in no position to stop Hank leaving or even notice his presence. He didn’t think they were dead, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to check. Hank quickly locked the door behind him, stepped over the bald guy, and strolled round the corner into another side street. There was no sign of his companion, other than the mess he’d left behind, but that just made it easier to slip away; Joey would sure be to stand out now, the state he must be in.

Hank zipped up his jacket, weighed down by the ten bags he’d had the presence of mind to stuff in there, and wandered off through the back alleys and away from Brooklyn. Fuck the Mafia; he was exhausted. But there was still one more thing to do.

 

Forty minutes later Hank got out of his cab in familiar Manhattan, turned down another street and walked unobtrusively into a tenement building. He knocked on a third-floor door, and it was cracked open.

“Where’s Joey?” asked the guy filling the space. Hank did know this one, had met him at Bruno’s last week, and it was almost a relief to see him.

“Dunno,” said Hank. “Ask the two bastards he left passed out off Knickerbocker.” The guy gave him a look, then opened up. Hank slipped inside. His body wanted to relax, but the rest of him was still on guard simply because this was an unfamiliar environment. This was Bruno’s local distribution center; Bobby would think it was fucking Fairyland.

“Got the stuff?” asked the small guy. Hank nodded. “Okay. Come let Santo check it, then you’re done.” Santo. That name rang a bell. Oh, yeah. Maybe Bobby did know this place. Hank was led through the kitchen – it looked like it hadn’t be redecorated or even cleaned since the Fifties – where a few Lucchese soldiers and dealers were standing around smoking, and into the back room. Which was a junk factory, no other way to describe it, piles of powder and workers in masks cutting it and bagging it up. Hank had never seen so much heroin in his life, and he had ten kilos of the stuff in his pockets.

“Here.” He undid his coat and began to unload. A man who must be the famous Santo, so dark he looked almost Hispanic, came to take it off him. As the weight lightened Hank felt he had taken a load off his mind, too, and for the first time tonight breathed slightly easy. Santo opened a corner of one bag, did a quick taste test and gave him an impassive look. He nodded, Hank nodded back, and that seemed to be that. Santo beckoned his usher and began to talk to him in a low voice, and the work of the room carried on.

Hank was about to show himself out, since nothing more seemed to be forthcoming, when one of the workers caught his eye. They were a real mixture behind their masks, male and female, black and Hispanic and white, and all seemed completely zoned out from everything except whatever repetitive task they were performing so that they almost looked like moving furniture. But this one had stopped, and was peeping up at him with a pair of big blue eyes that Hank was only too familiar with.

“Oh,” said Hank laconically, hiding his surprise but not his displeasure, “it’s you. How you doin’?” Casual, like they’d met just last week.

Helen removed her mask, and there was that face that had infatuated his brother for so long and for so little reason. So this is where she’d ended up; she hadn’t got out after all. Hank knew Bobby had hoped she’d go home, back to her normal family with their normal suburban problems; but really, after the first shock of seeing her it wasn’t any great stretch to imagine how she’d got here.

“How’s Bobby?” said Helen quietly. Hank found, as she spoke, that he wasn’t even jealous. Well, maybe a bit. But he had come far enough with Bobby that he was confident who would take first place in a fight for his brother’s affection. Which this wasn’t; she didn’t look like she had enough will for any kind of contest.

“In the Tombs,” Hank replied casually, hands in his pockets.

“Again?”

“Best place for him,” said Hank, with fervor. For now it certainly was, despite how much he was missing the idiot.

“Is he okay?” she asked, with a wistful edge that had irritated Hank the first time he’d heard it and which still bugged him now.

“He’ll be fine.”

“I really did love him, you know,” Helen told him softly, like she didn’t even have the energy to be resentful. “Not that it mattered to you.” Hank just looked at her; he knew that perfectly well. But it wasn’t enough; _she_ wasn’t enough for Bobby.

They stared at each other in silence for a minute. Then Helen sighed and pulled her mask up, and went back to her measuring. Hank was satisfied: with his own lack of remorse and with her continued weakness. He didn’t think she’d come after Bobby again, but at least Hank could tell him she was alive. If he asked.


	14. Chapter 14

“You okay?” asked Bobby next visiting day. “You look kinda frazzled.” Hank had felt it, the last two days, even after getting Bruno’s approval for a job well done. God, he _hated_ working with people, and running into Helen hadn’t filled him with joy, either. But seeing Bobby made him feel stupidly good: his expectant poise as Hank had walked in the room, that pale, scruffy little face with its lazy five o’clock shadow.

“No big deal,” he said lightly. “I oughta be askin’ about _you_.” He nodded at the small nick above Bobby’s eyebrow. “This place make you so dim you forgot what bits you’re meant to shave?” Bobby touched his forehead like he couldn’t even remember doing it, and shrugged.

“We’re gettin’ crowded again. There’s been fights.”

“You been a smartass?” demanded Hank; he knew his brother’s temper, and it could sure get Bobby into a scrape if he wasn’t careful. On the other hand, it was nice to see some evidence of energy after the quiet misery Bobby had been inhabiting the last few months. “Don’t make trouble for yourself.”

“Why not, when I do it so well?”

“You want early parole or not?” Hank asked bluntly. He got that you couldn’t afford to look weak in here, not if you wanted to avoid the various kinds of abuse an overcrowded prison offered. But there was a fine line between standing up for yourself and being fucking stupid.

“Doesn’t much matter.” Bobby spread his hands. “Six months, four, what’s the difference? I was only a good boy last time ‘cause Helen was waiting for me. Needed me. I thought she did, anyway.” He shot Hank a meaningful look. “What’s waitin’ for me now?” he said more quietly. “Pop? Think I’ll take my chances with the jerkoffs in here, if it’s all the same to you.”

Hank wanted to say something, then. About how dumb Bobby was not to want out early. Mostly about how Hank was missing him so goddam much, and how hard it was to enjoy anything without him; and that, whatever was waiting for Bobby, it would be a whole lot better than their lives had ever been before. He would see to it that Bobby could have anything he wanted. He was gonna _make_ it happen.

He didn’t say any of this, of course. He just sniffed and flapped his hand dismissively.

“Any more dramatic speeches while you got a captive audience?” Bobby snorted at that and flipped him off. “Don’t mess up your chances by being a dumb little brat. Just behave.”

“Fine,” said Bobby, leaning forward on his elbows and cracking his old wired grin. “You want I should try and charm these bastards instead?” Hank curled his mouth up.

“Well. Maybe a bit. Not too much!”

“See?” Bobby retorted down the phone. “If I gotta share a cell with three fatass jerks, I can keep ‘em off my bunk better by fightin’ than by charming ‘em into it!”

“Point,” said Hank. Obscurely, he was feeling relieved; Bobby was obviously doing okay, better than he’d been on the outside, not that it was anything to be proud of. The younger man settled down. He was quiet for a minute, then dropped his lashes to hide his eyes. Hank knew what was coming.

“…You seen Pop?” Bobby asked hesitantly. He frowned at Hank’s exasperated sigh. “It’s just a question.”

“I go out of my way not to see him.” Which was the truth. And soon, very soon, Hank hoped, neither of them would ever see their father again. He sat there and looked at Bobby’s downcast eyes, the stillness of his face when the subject of Frank came up, such a contrast to his lively cast just minutes before. Hank hated that look. It was time now, he knew. He’d done enough to prove his worth to the Lucchese. Time to end it.

 

* * *

 

 

Hank had told Bruno he needed a solid alibi that would put him far away from Frank’s killing, because with Bobby in the slammer he would obviously be the next suspect.

“Ya want it to be watertight?” said the older man, neatly slicing his pizza, “then you oughta be in jail too. Ain’t no way they can argue with that.”

“Seriously?” Hank had spent most of his life being careful to avoid that very thing, and had been especially well behaved over the last couple of months – Mafia drug wars notwithstanding – specifically to place himself under the cops’ radar. Bruno took a bite and nodded.

“Sure, ain’t like ya gotta do a stretch. Just a day or two in a holdin’ cell. Think you can arrange that?”

“No doubt.”

“All right then,” said Bruno comfortably. “We been watching your Pop. Next Sunday we’ll do it, on his way back from the bookie’s; so get yourself outta the way on Saturday.” He gave Hank a look. “You _sure_ about this, boy?”

“Yes,” replied Hank, equally cool; he hadn’t second-guessed himself once. “How’s a drunk and disorderly sound?” He didn’t want to get arrested for anything like drugs or burglary, that was too close to home.

“It’ll do. Ya need someone to go to town on?” Hank shrugged. “Then,” said the older man, “you got Joey.”

Hank sighed, and nodded. It’d be disorderly, all right.

 

It felt like only a skip and a jump to Saturday. Then it was midnight and Hank was being backed up against the outside of his favorite bar by several NYPD beat cops, surrounded at a safe distance by a hooting collection of interested bystanders. He was panting, adrenaline high despite his awareness that this was all a show; his fists were bloody and so was his mouth, where it felt like Joey had knocked some more teeth loose. The hulking great prick was a useless burglar, but had turned out to be spectacular at breaking furniture and generally causing a scene.

Surging on aggression that had started out manufactured but was now pretty authentic, Hank spat out blood and failed to hold in a snarl as Jackson approached him and pushed him back against the brickwork.

“Calm down, ya punk,” shouted Jackson, who had to be enjoying himself. Hank had roped him in at a quite outrageous fee, because he was the only cop he could trust to ensure things went right: to make sure Joey got to slip away while Hank – plus a couple more drunk dipshits who had got involved for the fun of it – was getting collared. Joey had seemed quite pleased to be part of the plan while he was enthusiastically kicking Hank’s ass a few minutes ago, but everyone had agreed that he shouldn’t be available for questioning: the less connection between Hank and the Lucchese, the better.

“Fuck you!” spat Hank, meaning it. He didn’t go much for physical fighting usually. Seemed he had a lot of rage backed up, as well as a flame of excitement at what was going to happen after this; and the bottle of JD was probably helping, too. He pushed against Jackson’s restraining baton, testing, and it hurt; felt like that big Sicilian shithead had dislocated his shoulder for him, too.

“C’mon,” grinned Jackson in his ear, “is that all the disorderly you got?”

“ _No_ ,” said Hank, and punched him. Then things got painful.

 

* * *

 

 

It took less than an hour for Hank to be sitting in the drunk tank with an assortment of other losers and what felt like a fractured cheekbone. The fucker was sure enthusiastic with his baton.

“Ya might be in here a day or so,” Jackson told him cheerfully. “Depends how easy you can drum up the bail money.” Hank just glared at him and nursed his head. A day oughta be enough, Bruno had said. He wasn’t gonna be in any hurry to get his lawyer down here tonight, and he was sure the crooked cop would create some helpful delays. One more day, he thought, the anticipation a bright, cold flame in his chest. Come Monday, he’d be able to breathe again.

Hank elbowed the old wino next to him to give himself more room, slumped down on the bench and waited for everything to stop aching.

 

* * *

 

 

Monday came and there was Hank, still in holding at the Precinct. Bruises aside, he couldn’t work out what he ought to be feeling right now, because he had no idea how Bruno’s part of the plan had gone. If well, Hank knew he should be whooping victory around his cell – not that he would – and if badly; well, he didn’t know how he’d react. But this limbo was worse.

So it was almost a delight to hear the low murmur of voices as the gate leading to the cells opened, and the solemn tread of footsteps down the hall. Shoes, not uniform boots, thought Hank, and sat up to peer through the bars.

It was Hotch, of all people. Looking even more embattled and gloomy than usual, which had to be good news, didn’t it? Hank took care to ensure that his own posture was of a man who felt like shit, which wasn’t too hard. Hotch leaned against the bars and stared at him.

“Hey, Hank.”

“What the hell’re you doin’ here?” asked Hank in a complaining tone, blinking up at him. “You bastards ready to let me out at last? My lawyer was here with bail yesterday.”

“Soon enough,” said Hotch. “But that’s not what I came down here for.” He paused. Hank growled inwardly; how long was the fucker planning to keep him waiting? “I’ve got some bad news,” the detective told him at last. Hank felt his heart skip a beat.

“What,” he said, “you _ain’t_ letting me out? C’mon, it was just one dumb drunken fight, don’t tell me _you_ never fought in the street before.” Hotch looked uncomfortable, either at having to deliver said bad news or at having to pretend he felt some sympathy for Hank.

“No,” Hotch continued, before Hank could go off on any more of a tangent. “It’s not that. It’s about your father.”

“Great, he got arrested now too?”

“Just shut up, will you?” Hotch took a breath. “Your dad’s dead. You hearing me, Hank? He was found this morning. Killed.” Hank was quiet for a long time; he covered his mouth with his fingers, then realized that was one of Bobby’s gestures and stopped.

“…You sure it’s Pop?” he said eventually.

“Yeah,” replied Hotch. “Marcy Rodriguez identified him. She knows him, right?”

“Well enough.” Hank squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again and shook his head as if to clear it. “Sorry, I just…this is kinda full-on. You sayin’ _killed_? What was it then, a traffic accident? Or he just piss off some dealer and pay the price for not payin’?”

“They’re not sure yet,” said the cop, still looking at him in what felt like disapproval. Hank supposed he wasn’t doing a very convincing impression of a grieving son, but he hadn’t been much good at it the last time, either. “Looks like he had a massive overdose, and recently. Then he was dumped up by the Lake in Central Park. Some bird-watcher found him first thing this morning. Sorry for your loss,” he added, belatedly.

“So, it was an accident? An O.D.?” Hank shook his head. “Gotta say, that ain’t a surprise. You know he was usin’, right? Dumb old bastard.”

“I know that,” Hotch said soberly. “And this wasn’t an accident.” He raised his hand to cut off Hank’s response. “His arm was all ripped up where he struggled when the needle went in. And there’s other stuff.”

“Christ.” Hank still wasn’t sure how he should be reacting, but he managed to feign a bit of shock. He squinted up at Hotch, the glaring lights from the corridor creating a corona around the Narco’s blonde head and making it hard to gauge his expression. “…Why’re you tellin’ me this?” he asked, slowly. “Not that I don’t appreciate it and all. But why not Homicide, if this was a murder? Or at least the desk sergeant. Why you?”

“Thought it might be easier, coming from someone you know.” Hotch shrugged. “I was in the building when Homicide notified the Precinct. Heard ‘em mention his name. So they go to look up next of kin, and turns out here you are, which was quite a surprise, lemme tell you. And I figured, that’s gotta be hard to hear; I’ll break it to him myself.”

“…Thanks,” said Hank, quietly. “Sure you didn’t get any satisfaction outta that at all.”

“No,” retorted Hotch, dead serious. “I didn’t.”

“This…I don’t even know what to say.” Hank leaned forward, forearms on his knees, and frowned intently at the floor. Then he started to get up. “Fuck, Hotch, you better let me out right now! I mean…Jesus Christ.”

“You’re not going anywhere ‘til we’ve had a talk.” Hotch looked at him and Hank sat back down ungraciously, his face displaying exactly what he felt, which was nothing. He’d thought, once he heard, that he might experience some delight, or even regret; it had been such an extreme step to take. But right now, he just found himself…quiet.

“About what?” Hank demanded, rubbing his cheek where it ached; he still had a killer hangover too, unless it was where Joey had headbutted him. “Ya want me to say I’m sorry for him? You know I ain’t.”

“Yeah,” said the detective, “I know you and your dad didn’t get on.”

“So what? The prick didn’t get on with anyone. He was a shit to most everybody who knew him.”

“Like Bobby, you mean,” said Hotch. Hank squinted at him with the only eye that would focus. Hotch really was quite smart.

“What’s Bobby got to do with anythin’?” he inquired smoothly. “Frank ain’t bothered him for two months, not with him stuck in the Tombs.”

“Quite,” the cop said wryly, knowing quite well that it was Hank who put him there.

“…What’re you gettin’ at, Hotch?” Hank winced, rubbed his head and gave him a weary glance. “I’m in considerable fuckin’ pain here, I just wanna get in a real bed and then start sortin’ stuff out. Look, if Pop was murdered -”

“Oh, he was,” Hotch assured him grimly.

“- Then I’ll help Homicide out whenever they wanna talk to me, I ain’t uncooperative, just fuckin’ tired.”

“I’m just curious,” said Hotch, looking like he didn’t give two craps about Hank’s injuries. “Because what I know and Homicide doesn’t – yet – is how you are about your brother, and how your dad treated him. Not just this past year; all the way back.” Hank quirked an eyebrow. “We do have files, you know,” the cop said. “There’s domestic complaints from years and years ago; people knew Frank was no good, even in your neck of the woods.”

“Nice to see the justice system did so much about it,” Frank remarked coldly.

“Point is,” continued Hotch, “you got every reason to have a grudge against him: for you, for your mom, for Bobby.”

“So what…You’re sayin’ I offed my old man?” Hank let out a sour laugh. “What am I, fuckin’ Houdini? I been in here two days, disorganized fucks you people are.”

“I know that. It’s pretty interesting: you being such a good boy since Bobby was put away, and now suddenly here you are.”

“So, when did he die?” persisted Hank. “‘Cause whatever you’re sayin’, it’s impossible.” Hotch was watching him closely; Hank met his eyes, and it was easy. After a minute the detective shifted.

“We’ll see when the autopsy report comes back. Until then, sit tight.”

Hank made the appropriate grumbling sounds at the prospect of spending extra days in the tank. Hotch just looked at him, then went away. Even then Hank didn’t smile. But he wanted to. Now it was sinking in: their father was dead. What was more worth celebrating than that?

 

* * *

 

 

Bobby dropped into the booth and picked up the receiver. As soon as Hank spoke he leaned forward to rest his forehead against the glass, and looked up at him. Hank gazed back; Bobby didn’t seem like he’d been crying, but he’d take every precaution to hide it in here. Hank wanted to get closer, wanted to lean through the glass and touch him.

“You heard, did you?” he said. Bobby nodded, so close his long eyelashes were practically up against the window. Those goddam perfect eyes.

“D’you know what happened?” Bobby asked carefully. He jerked his head back for a second to check no guards were passing, and lowered his voice. “You know who did it?” He met Hank’s pale eyes squarely.

“Course not,” Hank told him. Bobby’s expression didn’t change; he knew Hank would lie, of course he did. What he maybe didn’t understand yet was just what else Hank would do for him. “And even if I did…would you want to know?”

His brother looked at him for a long time, long enough for Hank to read him: Bobby was showing him shock, and pain, and something else too, something new enough that Hank had never seen it on his white features before. He couldn’t tell what it was.

“…No,” said Bobby eventually. “Not right now, I don’t think.”

“Very sensible,” replied Hank, feeling such a blaze of approval and affection it was all he could do not to try and smash the glass and reach for him. So dumb, and so out of control; but that was Bobby for you.

“How about you?” Bobby peered up at him; Hank supposed he still looked pretty rough, thanks to the convincing performances of both Joey and Jackson. “…You okay?”

“Oh, you know me.” Hank gave his brother the corner of a real smile, the first time he’d felt like smiling kindly in what seemed like forever.

“Yeah,” said Bobby softly, “I do, as it goes.” He propped himself up on one elbow and began fiddling with the sealant on the window seam. “The cops buggin’ you much?”

“Pretty much what you’d expect. But I was coolin’ my heels in the drunk tank when it all happened, and I couldn’t help ‘em much. So they let me go quick enough.” Hank looked down at him fondly. He’d half expected Bobby to be distraught, but if anything he seemed…accepting. Like he finally knew what was good for him. Or maybe he was on something. Either way, Hank quite liked it.

“Drunk enough to get arrested? Fightin’ over nothing?” said Bobby worriedly. “That ain’t like you.” Beneath the concern Hank thought he spotted a flash of calculation on Bobby’s features: he was suspicious all right, whether he approved of Hank’s actions or not.

“Boredom,” lied Hank, shooting Bobby a lopsided smile. “Without you around gettin’ into trouble. Work’s keepin’ me busy these days too.”

“Well…be careful.” Bobby looked at him wistfully. “You’re all I got now.” He frowned, and pressed his pale hand against the window, splaying his fingers lightly over the glass. Hank wanted to laugh, it was such a corny gesture, like Bobby had got it from some old movie. But he didn’t. Instead he found himself reaching out to touch him, fingers where Bobby’s palm would be if the reinforced glass wasn’t in the way.

“I’m all you need,” he told his brother in a low voice. Bobby just sat and smiled, and said nothing.


	15. Chapter 15

Hank ground out another cigarette under his heel and rested his back impatiently on the door of his Impala. Four o’clock, Bobby had said, that was kicking-out time. And that was ten minutes ago. How much longer would he have to cool his jets outside the prison gate before his brother was finally free and in front of him?

He shot his unwanted companion a quick glare; the presence of their neighborhood Narco sure wasn’t making the time go any faster.

“…Been a bad few years for you guys, huh,” said Hotch, also leaning up against Hank’s car like he owned it. “What with your mom, and Bobby’s troubles, and now your dad…” The man was like a terrier; he just wouldn’t leave things alone.

“Yup,” Hank said noncommittally, wondering if Hotch was there specifically to annoy him or if he was just waiting to harass Bobby.

“Bad business, how he died. Homicide still haven’t got to the bottom of it.”

“What, the model of efficiency we call the NYPD? They’ve had two whole months, ain’t they?” Hank kept his face straight; he knew precisely what Hotch was trying to do, and the cop knew that he knew. This was just killing time. Hotch looked at him sideways.

“Heard there’s a mob connection, but that doesn’t seem -”

But Hank had stopped listening, because at that moment the gate opened and out came Bobby wearing the same scruffy threads he’d gone in with on that decisive night. He stopped at the top of the steps, looked around, then caught sight of the two men waiting by the car. Hank felt Bobby’s eyes meet his even at this distance, and missed a breath. Bobby pulled his jacket tighter around him against the dull afternoon chill, and jogged lightly toward them.

“Hey!” Bobby shouted, sounding almost breathless too.

“Hey yourself.” Hank hated that Hotch was here right now, wanted to tell him to get lost so he could greet Bobby with the gravity that the moment seemed to call for. He’d only seen Bobby a week ago, but now he was here, right in front of him and Hank could reach out and touch him – if Hotch would just fuck off.

Instead he had to settle for shaking his brother’s hand, and even then he didn’t want to let go. Bobby was white as ever, huge eyes solemn in his pale face, which –

“What’s that?!” demanded Hank, looking away from his eyes long enough to notice a vivid red scar that started at Bobby’s left cheekbone and ran a jagged course down to his jaw, new enough to still have stitches. It looked bad; he’d only missed it because he was so caught up in Bobby’s gaze.

“Bobby’s been fighting; haven’t you,” Hotch put in with his arms folded. “Quite the temper after all, this one. Lucky he didn’t have his parole stopped.”

Hank didn’t respond, just raised one hand and touched Bobby’s face carefully with his gloved fingers, tilting his jaw to get a better look at the wound. Bobby dropped his gaze to stare at the ground, crazy lashes hiding his expression, though the tops of his ears turned an angry red.

“…You take care of whoever did this?” said Hank quietly, experiencing a wave of cold, controlled fury. He could hide it, thank god, and only Bobby would be able to tell how his hand was shaking. “‘Cause if not I’d be happy to.”

“Oh yeah?” interjected Hotch laconically; Hank could feel him watching, and had to bite back a very insulting exclamation because he really tried not to get into pointless contests with law officers, especially this one; but Hotch was in his way. Bobby must have sensed his anger; the younger man took an anxious breath.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “It was dumb, I know it. Dunno what I was thinkin’, in my last week.” He hesitated. “It’s…pretty ugly, right?”

Hank was astonished; all of a sudden he didn’t care if Hotch was here or not. Was Bobby really so stupid?

“You think I care about that?” he asked vehemently; his leather-clad fingers tightened on Bobby’s jaw. Bobby winced and Hank exhaled deliberately, slowly loosening his grip to slide his thumb apologetically across his brother’s cheek. He lowered his voice. “Ya think it matters at all to me?”

Bobby’s eyes had snapped up the moment he started speaking, and were fixed on him raptly. Hank could sense Hotch’s gaze too, though right now he couldn’t care less. All he could think of was the familiar shape of Bobby’s face beneath his hand, and how these last months without him now seemed like a kind of starvation.

Hotch cleared his throat, and Hank blinked and dropped his hand.

“C’mon,” he said to his brother. “You gotta be sick of the sight of this dump. Let’s get home.” He opened the car door and dropped into the driver’s seat.

“Yeah,” agreed Bobby faintly, after a few seconds of standing there like a dope. He nipped round and slid in the other side. Hotch obligingly got his ass off the car; Hank gave him half a smile, the one that hacked people off without them knowing quite why. The cop was still looking at them, a puzzled line between his blonde eyebrows, and Hank knew he hadn’t heard the last about their father.

But all that could wait.

“Bobby,” he murmured as they accelerated away from the stoplight, and then couldn’t think of what he had wanted to say. Maybe the name was enough, as it finally dawned on Hank that, after all, he hadn’t escaped the addict’s streak that ran through his family’s blood. With Bobby here beside him in the car he felt a satisfaction so strong it was like the first breath after fighting your way up from underwater; and Hank thought that at last he had found his drug of choice.

Bobby looked over at him, head lolling against the seatback, and laughed at whatever he saw on Hank’s face. Then he went quiet, and they just drove.

 

* * *

 

 

On the way to the apartment the tension seemed stretched so tight it was almost snapping. Bobby was a silent, wired presence behind Hank as he trudged up the stairs, and Hank didn’t know why, when he had only seen Bobby a handful of days ago. Just that something in these long months had changed, and he couldn’t go back.

He paused with the key in the door, and turned to stare at Bobby. The younger man looked exactly like Hank felt: like he was on the rooftop of some tall building, sick with vertigo but being drawn irresistibly toward the edge.

He thought he heard his brother say “Yes,” but it was so quiet he couldn’t be sure. He smiled anyway and pushed the door open. Bobby was on his heels, slamming it behind him, and at the sound Hank turned with an urgency he could no longer control.

Hank pressed both hands against the door and leaned on them. The paint was cold and smooth beneath his palms and the wood felt as if it was vibrating, though Hank understood it wasn’t: it was just his hyper-awareness of everything around him, the rapid pulse of blood in his wrists. As a feeling it belonged to the same family as a drug high or the excitement of a robbery; but this was different. This was…anticipation, and gratification, and _relief_. He looked down solemnly.

Hemmed in between his solid hands and back against the door, Bobby looked up. And kissed him.

It was a quiet, almost platonic movement as Bobby’s closed mouth touched his own; but Hank was immediately reminded of the first time, back when Bobby was seventeen and stoned and terrified. His kiss back then had been fascinating, sure, but now… Quite giddied with the years of desire and goddam restraint that were smashing down on him, Hank pushed harder at his brother’s mouth until Bobby gasped and lifted his hands to clutch his jacket.

“…I know what I said,” Hank muttered against his lips when he at last had to stop for breath. He leaned back just enough to catch a glimpse of Bobby’s face; for once, he had no idea what he was seeing. “Promised you I wouldn’t start anythin’…But you want to, don’t ya?” Bobby just kissed him again, hands gripping tight at his collar, and Hank supposed that was answer enough.

He removed his hands from the door and cupped Bobby’s head, careful of his injured cheek. He tried to move slowly, because Bobby had always been so scared of this happening, and so adamant that it mustn’t. But they had left it too long, Hank realized, let what was between them build for too many years; and now before he knew it he was slamming Bobby into the door, almost lifting him up on his toes to kiss him more deeply. He felt Bobby’s tongue brush his own, heard his brother moan eagerly.

“I want to,” managed Bobby, his fingers tugging at Hank’s coat as the older man’s lips met his neck. Hank let him go long enough for Bobby to push the coat off. Then his brother’s arms were around him, hands running across the wool of his sweater like he couldn’t decide where he most wanted to touch. “Come _on_ ,” said Bobby pleadingly, as if he didn’t want time to stop and reconsider. So Hank kissed him again, the taste of him oddly familiar and absolutely right.

“Whatever you want,” Hank muttered, meaning it.

“You,” Bobby told him, and pushed him away from the door and into the living-room. Hank let him. “Goddammit, it’s cold in here!”

“I know,” said Hank absently. He slid his hand beneath Bobby’s old jacket; his thumb brushed the younger man’s nipple through the rest of his clothes, and Bobby shivered. “Get undressed.”

“You hear what I just said?!” Bobby leaned into Hank so tight they were sharing warmth all down their bodies; Hank could feel Bobby’s cock against his leg, and he wanted to see everything. He ran a hand down his brother’s back to squeeze his ass.

“Sure I did,” he said, with a smile. Bobby made a throaty little sound as Hank did it again. “Now do what you’re told for once.” He tugged the beat-up jacket off Bobby’s shoulders and threw it aside. Encouraged, Bobby pulled his shirt and t-shirt over his head in one lithe movement, and there was all that smooth, pale skin that Hank had only ever been allowed to see in glimpses. Bobby bit his lower lip as if trying to conceal his own smile.

“Happy?” he demanded, chafing his skinny arms briskly against the cold. Hank swallowed an approving noise and reached for him, drawing him forward by the nape of the neck to kiss him while his other hand went for the younger man’s fly.

“Everything,” he instructed, his strong fingers lightly cupping Bobby’s cock through his jeans. It was a pleasing sensation, thought Hank, as exciting as he’d imagined, and the sound Bobby made just encouraged him to hurry on.

In less than a minute his brother was naked. Hank figured he might be feeling kind of vulnerable, being the only one on display, but Bobby just kissed him ravenously and pushed him determinedly into the bedroom. Then Hank was somehow sitting on the bed with his brother in his lap, arms full as Bobby wrestled Hank’s sweater over his head and began yanking at his tie.

“You can slow down,” observed Hank, taking hold of Bobby’s wrists, “unless you’re tryin’ to throttle me.”

He’d hardly had the chance to explore yet; so he held Bobby still and kissed him lightly on the lips, running the fingers of one hand across his tense shoulders, his collarbones, down the line of his ribs to his stomach. He replaced them with his mouth, tasting him, kissing the spot in the crook of his arm where the needle scars were fading. Bobby trembled in the wake of his touch, becoming quite docile, and Hank thought to himself that this was a far better method of control than all the others he had tried in the past.

When he did let go, Bobby just set his hands to Hank’s temples, tipped his head up and looked at him, huge eyes rapt as they inventoried his face.

“What?” Hank asked, very willing to indulge Bobby but starting to feel strange and flustered under his stare – not to say that it was unpleasant. “I got a wonky eye or somethin’?”

“Nope. You’re pretty good-lookin’,” murmured Bobby generously, gazing down at him from just enough distance to focus; his thumb against Hank’s bottom lip as his mouth brushed the older man’s. “Apart from bein’ so generally creepy.”

“Thanks,” replied Hank. He tangled his fingers in the hair at the nape of Bobby’s neck and yanked sharply. Bobby laughed. Hank wanted to say that he had no intention of flattering his brother in return, when in terms of his affection Bobby’s looks were so unimportant. But before he could start talking, Bobby kissed him.

It started gentle. But by now Hank had had enough of gentle; he had wanted something like this to happen for so long, and now he was so fucking hard for Bobby it almost hurt. So he picked him up bodily and threw him onto his back, reversing their positions to pin him down with a knee between his thighs. Bobby was still so weedy, realized Hank: he was as easy to chuck around now as when he was a teenager.

Bobby made a small out-of-breath sound as he took Hank’s weight, but he wrapped his arms tight around the older man’s neck and held on. Hank couldn’t stop himself grinding down against him, and Bobby exhaled sharply, long lashes fluttering closed.

“Good?” said Hank in a low voice. Bobby managed a laugh beneath him.

“God, _yes_. Long as I don’t need to breathe.” His grip on Hank’s shirt tightened when Hank did it again. “…C’mon, you weigh a fuckin’ ton!”

Well, anyone did compared to Bobby. Hank wasn’t insulted, he just didn’t want to move away, not when finally he was almost as close to his brother as he could be. He compromised by allowing Bobby to wriggle out from under until they were side by side, pressed together; in the process Hank managed to lose his shirt and a few buttons, but he didn’t care, although Bobby was right: it was goddam freezing. Bobby was looking at him again.

“What is it?” asked Hank impatiently. He took hold of Bobby’s chin and gave him a little shake – that brought back interesting memories, of the very first moment this thing between them had begun. Heart hammering in anticipation he swept his thumb slowly across Bobby’s lower lip, saw the younger man’s mouth open to draw the tip of his finger inside. This time he knew what Bobby was going to do: his brother was gazing right at him, white teeth tightening very slowly on the digit.

“Bobby…” whispered Hank, aroused by the memory as much as the bite, which was slow and weirdly seductive; nothing like the fast, frightened snap of the first time. Bobby bit him pretty hard. Hank heard himself let out a soft rumble of approval. He nudged his hard-on against Bobby’s thigh, and felt the tip of his tongue brush his index finger.

“…If I hadn’t done that,” said Bobby breathlessly when he let up, looking down at the tooth marks in Hank’s finger. “If I hadn’t, that day…you think we’d be here right now? You think you’d have done all this for me?”

Hank paused in his involuntary bid to hump Bobby’s leg like an Alsatian, and wondered what kind of answer he was after. The younger man was kissing the pad of his finger carefully, and it made thinking rather tricky. In the end he just gave up and told the truth.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be like this,” he acknowledged. Caught Bobby’s small frown, and tugged fondly at his earlobe. “If you hadn’t had the balls to do it, I might’ve never known what I wanted. But even without that,” he continued, “I’d have done everything I could for ya. ‘Cause you’re my little brother, you’re the only family that ever meant anythin’ to me.” He leant down and set his lips to Bobby’s white neck, biting lightly to leave his own mark. “I’d have complained a lot fuckin’ more, though.”

“Impossible,” said Bobby, and pulled him closer. Hank supposed he’d heard what he wanted to hear, and when Bobby’s hand slid over his stomach to tug urgently at his zipper and slip inside his pants he nearly came right there, out of sheer self-congratulation. Or maybe it was just Bobby’s fingers against his cock, only a thin layer of cotton keeping Hank from finally really feeling him.

“Shut up,” managed Hank, “quit fuckin’ around!” Without waiting for Bobby to respond he grabbed the younger man’s ass and pulled him tight up against him, partly crushing Bobby’s hand between their pelvises but it was so _good_ , the length of Bobby’s hard-on creating the most delicious friction against his own as he shifted closer. Bobby’s leg was pinning him across his hip, his free arm controlling around Hank’s neck, and when Hank pushed toward him he moaned. The sound sent a pleasurable shudder right down into Hank’s toes, and then Bobby’s hand had found its way beneath his clothes, fingers wrapping greedily around his cock.

“Jesus Christ.” The kid was actually good, thought Hank amid the blur of sensation; course, he’d probably spent most of his teenage years yanking his own chain, so he oughta be. With some difficulty Hank kicked off the rest of his clothing – Bobby was no help, intent on getting as much skin as possible into contact with his brother’s – and here they were, at last, naked as they day they were born and like Hank had been imagining for…he couldn’t remember how long.

“You feel good,” said Bobby breathlessly, growling indulgently as the older man bit at his collarbone.

“Damn right,” Hank replied, his voice muffled in Bobby’s flesh, hands eagerly running the length of him from his spine to his thighs. “You’re still too fuckin’ skinny, ya gotta eat more.”

“That’s what I was plannin’.” Hank could hear the faint grin in Bobby’s voice; then his brother was wriggling in his grip, lips on Hank’s neck, then his chest, pale hands pushing at him until he was reclining against the headboard again. “Can I?” asked Bobby nervously, his mouth a caress against Hank’s stomach and his fingers moving further south.

“…What?”

Bobby gazed up at him wordlessly and slid his fingers around the base of his cock. Hank took a breath; from up here Bobby’s eyes were huge, apprehension and anticipation twisting in his dark irises.

“Yes,” agreed Hank, exhaling in a rush, “yeah, Christ, of course you can!” He slid one hand encouragingly into Bobby’s black hair, already mussed and messy from kissing him, and drew him forward. Bobby seemed reassured by the strong fingers cradling his skull, although he had to be able to feel how Hank was shaking. That was entirely excitement. Then Bobby’s sweet, cynical lips touched the head of his cock.

“Fuck.” Bobby kissed him first, as if this was about pure affection and not painfully primal lust at all. Then his tongue flicked out across the tip and Hank drew a harsh breath because _that_ felt like pure wickedness.

“It’s okay?” murmured Bobby, whose ears were glowing pinkly with embarrassment or arousal, Hank was in no position to tell, not when his brother’s mouth was pressing wet kisses down to the base of his hard-on, fingers stroking him rhythmically.

“…You done this before?” was all Hank managed, the suspicion plain in his tone along with a note of fierce jealously that made Bobby laugh to himself. “Huh? For those sons of bitches you were sharin’ a cell with?”

“No,” replied Bobby, sounding amused and pleased at the older man’s possessive streak, which just went to show they weren’t normal, as if any further proof was needed. “Why you think I spent all my time fightin’?” He looked up at Hank, pupils dilated enough that his eyes were almost black. “Wouldn’t do this for anyone else,” he told him hungrily, “but with you…Christ, I’ve imagined it...”

“Crazy,” said Hank hoarsely.

“It’s sick,” Bobby announced, “but I don’t care no more.” Hank wanted to say something smart to that, but before he could Bobby had bent his head and closed his mouth over Hank’s cock. It felt so fucking _sweet_ , and not even the physical sensation so much as the idea of Bobby doing it. Not that the sensations weren’t amazing – the younger man might not know what he was up to but his mouth was hot and eager, that smartass tongue moving teasingly as he let out a low noise of effort. Bobby was right: it was sick; and the most delicious thing Hank could imagine.

He rested a hand heavily on Bobby’s head, scruffy hair catching between his fingers, which dug into the kid’s scalp as Bobby took him deeper. Hank knew very well that doing something this deviant together would put them beyond the pale of not only normal society but even the freaks that populated their lives. He didn’t care, oh, not when Bobby was so perfect. He knew he couldn’t hold it together much longer.

“Hey,” Hank said gruffly, letting Bobby up. His brother raised his head, gulping in air with his incredible eyes wide and shining. Dammit, but Hank loved those eyes. “Not so quick,” he suggested, and drew Bobby up to lie beside him again. Bobby’s lips had lost their usual pallor, flushed with effort; the effect was seriously attractive, Hank found. He raised his fingers to Bobby’s mouth and the younger man took them in one by one, not biting this time but swirling his tongue cooperatively around each digit before licking a hot, electric stripe down Hank’s palm.

“What you wanna do now?” inquired Bobby. His hands were on Hank’s arms again, legs wrapped firmly around his hips to get some friction against his erection. Hank kissed him – hadn’t meant to, he didn’t usually go for that when someone had just been blowing him.

“Well if ya keep still for two fuckin’ seconds…” he suggested, and kissed Bobby again when he found it didn’t matter. He grabbed Bobby’s ass and shifted him easily so that he could take both their cocks in one slick hand and begin jerking them off together. Hank heard himself growl at the same time as Bobby groaned softly; he guessed his brother was maybe over-sensitive, although Hank didn’t think anyone could be experiencing more exquisite sensations than he himself was at that moment.

“Too much?” he whispered kindly, closing his teeth in Bobby’s earlobe, just playfully enough to startle. Bobby nodded helplessly. That was okay; Hank had to slow down anyway, or it’d be game over already and he wanted this incredible event to last; wanted to remember every second of it.

Hank couldn’t pretend he’d never thought about it, about how it would feel to touch Bobby like this. But now they were really here, it was different; better, yeah, _way_ better than he’d imagined to have Bobby’s hands on him. What he hadn’t expected was his desire to satisfy his brother in return; the thought had simply never occurred with anyone else who’d been in his bed: the effort it would take to make Bobby happy. He’d have to change his habits if he was going to please him.

He resumed the slow, long sweeps of his hand, cradling Bobby’s injured face in the other, resting his forehead against Bobby’s so that they were breathing the same air as the pace started to build.

“Shoulda done this before,” he murmured, although he knew Bobby would never have let it happen; that every awful event they’d gone through had been necessary in building to this afternoon, this moment, when it had become inevitable. “…You’re fuckin’ _perfect_ ,” he continued. Bobby liked that sappy shit, little romantic he was; but for once, Hank didn’t mind. Bobby laughed tremulously and added his hand to Hank’s, pressing their cocks together in the most intimate of contacts.

“Next time you can fuck me.” Bobby gasped as Hank involuntarily tightened his grip, because yeah, _that_ would be the most intimate thing, and Bobby would _let him do it_. “…Don’t think we’re gonna make it this time!”

Hank didn’t think so either: in fact, just the thought of it was enough to push him over, the delicious pressure reaching its height, and then he was coming over Bobby’s stomach. He sank his teeth into his brother’s shoulder to stifle a blissful growl, and Bobby was moaning and moving against him, his fingers milking Hank’s cock eagerly.

“ _Fuck_ ,” muttered Bobby as the blankness in Hank’s vision receded and he found himself able to function again. He set his lips to the teeth marks in Bobby’s white skin and turned all his attention to the younger man’s reactions, stroking him faster until Bobby came as well, breath fast and helpless in Hank’s ear as he ground out a string of curse-words and praise. Hank held him tight until he was done, hard enough that Bobby would have bruises tomorrow.

“…Fuck,” said Bobby again, and his limbs finally relaxed. He didn’t let go, just sank heavy and exhausted against Hank’s side. For once in his life, Hank didn’t mind; he wasn’t a clingy individual and didn’t like it in his bed partners, but he should have known it would be different with Bobby.

“I missed you,” confessed Bobby once his breathing had evened out. “So much.” His light voice was still unsteady. Hank didn’t reply but pulled him nearer, sticky and warm wherever they touched and turning chilly everywhere else. He kissed the top of Bobby’s head.

The younger man went quiet after that, cheek on Hank’s shoulder. Hank wondered what he was thinking; he knew very well that guilty streak of his brother’s. No doubt Bobby _had_ missed him, maybe enough that he’d finally allowed himself to give in. Hank just hoped he wasn’t regretting it now he was coming down. For himself, Hank felt no remorse, just a vast, deep well of satisfaction.

“I don’t regret it.” Hank was surprised when Bobby piped up at last, apparently intuiting his older brother’s thoughts. “I wanted this so long, and I missed you; when I was in there, an’ before. All I could think of was you.”

“Bullshit,” retorted Hank, smiling to himself lazily. He knew Bobby’s other infatuations too damn well to believe that. But he did believe that Bobby had wanted him, and it was plenty gratifying.

“Hmm.” Seemed he’d worn his brother out enough to stop him arguing, at least.

“So,” said Hank contentedly. “Now you’re straightened out and all, got your parole, you gonna be a good boy and go back to school?”

“I’ll do whatever you want,” Bobby promised earnestly, his lips against Hank’s shoulder and arm across his waist. That made Hank laugh.

“No ya won’t,” he exclaimed, amused. “You’ll do whatever the fuck _you_ want, and I’ll try an’ keep you outta trouble. As usual.” He squeezed Bobby tight enough that the younger man growled in complaint. He felt him shiver a bit, and it wasn’t tension or apprehension but just that the bedroom was always fucking freezing. “Go clean up if you’re cold,” he instructed, “and come back to bed.” He was damned if Bobby was gonna go back to sleeping on the sofa.

“Bossy, Jesus.” Bobby kissed him again and reluctantly got up, pinching a blanket and draping it across his shoulders to brave the chill, so that as he exited in the direction of the bathroom he resembled some kind of low-grade porno superhero. Hank grinned, rummaged around on the nightstand for spare cigarettes and lit up. He felt satiated – for the time being, at least – although it was tempting to start picturing all the things Bobby might let him do if this were to be repeated.

“Oi, chuck me a towel,” Hank called. Bobby trotted back in, aimed a washcloth at his head and went back to whatever he was doing. He was gone a long time, Hank thought; long enough for him to finish his cigarette, get in bed and start thinking about food. Sure, this was the most momentous occasion of his life, but screwing was screwing and it made him hungry.

“What you doin’?” he asked after a few minutes. He hadn’t heard the shower go on, so unless Bobby was sitting there having a panic attack about admitting out loud that he wanted his big brother to fuck him, Hank couldn’t imagine what he was up to.

At last Bobby padded back in, reasonably clean and wearing another jumper and sweatpants. Hank patted the bed like Bobby was a dog; instead of getting pissed his brother climbed up and sat facing him, bare face and feet very white.

“You been gettin’ maudlin out there?” Hank saw Bobby shake his head. He reached out and rubbed the younger man’s knee, fingers lingering on the curve of his calf. “Nobody’s gonna know, Bobby, ain’t no point worrying.”

“I’m not.” Bobby sighed and touched Hank’s wrist gently. “But if this is how it’s gonna be now -” Hank nodded decisively, because how the hell would they go back? “- Then I gotta be honest with you.”

“Commendable,” said Hank suspiciously. He waited, and eventually heard another sigh.

“…You had Pop killed, didn’t you,” said Bobby. He crossed his legs and sat looking at Hank quietly. Now it was Hank’s turn to pause. Somehow, after the prison, he hadn’t thought Bobby would be able to face actually talking about it. But maybe the conversation needed to happen.

“Yeah,” he admitted coolly. “And you knew it from the start, soon as they told ya. Right?” He wasn’t gonna straight-out lie to Bobby, not anymore. His brother made an odd face, not like his old set expression of anger but something more complicated; it was the face Hank had glimpsed that day in the Tombs, the day Bobby found out their father was dead. “I had to, ya know.”

“That’s why you got me arrested, isn’t it.” Hank nodded. “…You mighta saved yourself the trouble,” Bobby said, smiling strangely at Hank’s quizzical expression. “‘Cause if you hadn’t…I would’ve.”

“Huh?” Bobby opened his hand to reveal a small, opaque glass bottle. Hank couldn’t see the contents. “What is it?” he asked. Bobby looked up at him through his lashes.

“Thallium sulfate.” Hank didn’t say anything, but his face must have said it for him. The younger man set the little bottle on the bed between them. “I was gonna cook it up with his fix,” he confessed softly. “Make him inject himself. I just…couldn’t stand it anymore. _Him_.” To Hank’s amazement, the only sign Bobby gave to show that this was affecting him in any way was the slight shake in his voice.

“You were gonna poison Pop,” Hank said incredulously. Bobby looked up at him again, and _there_ it was, guilt, right through his perfect eyes, and Hank knew in his bones that Bobby could have done it.

“…I wanted to,” Bobby whispered. “Not _kill_ him, maybe, but…just make him real sick.”

“Where’d you even get that stuff?”

“The pest control guy,” said Bobby. And then, tremulously, “I was going to do it. I was just waitin’…waiting to be brave enough, to hate him enough for what he was doin’ to us.” He swallowed and leaned closer unconsciously. “But then you did it for me.”

“I did,” agreed Hank, still stunned.

“And it _was_ for me,” said Bobby, meeting Hank’s pale stare with such gratitude that the older man suddenly ceased caring about what Bobby might or might not have done. “Wasn’t it?”

“Of course it was, dumbass, I love you.” Hank gave him half a real smile. “You’re my brother. And don’t this just prove it.”

With that Bobby flashed him an answering smile, gone in a second to be replaced with a solemn, adoring expression that Hank thought he could see every day forever without tiring of it. Bobby reached for his hand and took it lightly, white fingers wrapped around his own. They sat like that in silence, heads close together; and Hank knew with final, perfect certainty that this was the only family he would ever need.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there you go! Got kind of fluffy there, but...yay. Finished!


End file.
